


Buzzfeed Unsolved: 4 Weeks of Halloween

by cryingdrama3



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/F, F/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranormal, Shane Being an Asshole, Spooky, have fun, idk - Freeform, ryan bergara - Freeform, shane madej - Freeform, shyan????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-07-23 13:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 63,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16159859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryingdrama3/pseuds/cryingdrama3
Summary: read the fucking title, you wimps.ALOT OF INAPPROPIATE SHIT ON HERE





	1. DAY 1-- MURDER

The first thing you notice about the body is that its eyes are wide open, grassy, as if that’s how the person died. As if that was the last emotion Alex Harmon felt before having his brains blown out and it being scattered on his nice wall. Good thing the walls were a brick red, the forensics team’s job got just got a bit easier. 

Alex Harmon’s body was face down, arms on both sides of his face as his cheek was pressed against the carpet. The chalk outline was drying before they can move the body away from the scene. It must be very embarrassing to die at home in your pajamas, Madej thought as he gave the body one last look before turning to look at the man walking through the door. 

“It’s a murder,” the man says walking through the door. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Madej says as he looks up. 

Bergara narrows his eyes before taking a step forward into the room. “I expected a suicide but Harmon is too rich to die with a gun.” He looks at the bookcase, all of the books pressed tightly together with only a dust bunny in between them. “Maybe poison or cutting his wrists in the bathtub.” 

Madej hums, “I saw him more as a gun-under-the-chin type of guy. I mean, look at that hair! It certainly will make up for a hole in the back of the head.” 

A smile danced on Bergara’s lips before ducking his head away from the taller detective. “Any suspects?” 

“Whoo! This one has a whole list of enemies. It might be better to tell you who are  _not_ suspects,” Madej says as he takes a look at the files that he had tucked under his arm. “Alex Harmon, studied law in NYC, moved to L.A as a vacation. Recently got divorced and lost the custody of his kids.” 

While Madej spoke, Bergara inspected the books, most of them had titles but some didn’t, just plain spines with no words at all. The fact that Harmon’s body was laying only two feet away from him made his skin crawl. No matter how long he has been working, the fact that someone died in a room and their body was still present was something that Bergara will have nightmares about. “How many kids did he have?”

“Three. Anthony, Angie, Alex Jr.” 

Bergara hummed and poked one of the books and heard something hollow. He stared at it, his eyebrows furrowed, confused. He tapped on the book before it, one with a title, and a solid sound came out and then he tapped on the first book again and the sound was hollow again. He pulled it from the bookcase and felt how light it was. 

Madej looked up from the files to see the shorter at the bookcase. “What is it?” 

Bergara shook the book and head something shuffle inside. “It’s a hollow book. He was hiding something.” He opened the book and papers fell out onto the floor, and a paper that stood out the most floated and fell right next to Harmon’s hand. It was a letter, it was shown by cursive letters written in messy-neatness. 

Madej and Bergara looked at it as it floated down and when it hit the grown, they both looked at each other. Slowly, Bergara picked it up and read it, eyes darting around as he read all the words as fast as he could. “What does it say?” Madej asked, eyes glued on Bergara's face, waiting for an expression. Any expression. 

Instead of answering the question, he asked: “Who’s Poppy Colours?” 

Madej blinked again, “Harmon's wife. Er, ex-wife.” 

Bergara didn't say anything for a long time, reading all of the letters as fast as he could possibility can without hurting himself. After a while, Bergara spoke up, reading out some parts of letters: 

> _“... My stance with you is unholy, I am very aware. I am a sinner for pulling you into the cathedral that was the shared bed between my wife and I. I am proud of being ashamed of my actions. And soon, Mrs. Jones, the truth will be revealed as my affairs -- both romantically and politically -- have come back to haunt me. Forgive me, Madam, I am aware that not only will I ruin my own life but I will ruin yours. Signed, Alex Harmon.”_

He looked up from the letter to see Madej's look of surprise and bewilderment. “So he cheated?” 

“Yeah,” Bergara said. “Fucking cheated. And according to all these letters it went on for almost a whole year too.” 

Detective Madej looked down at the body, seeing the whole in the back of his hair, surrounded by black hair. Blood had stopped pouring out for a couple hours and it was beginning to dry on the floor. Harmon had a young-looking face, some peach fuzz gathering around his mouth. No wonder people fell for him like flies. 

“All of these letters are from Maria Jones -- his mistress,” Bergara said. “But this one--” he holds the one that had landed next to the body “--its from him, still meant to me sent. But he has it hidden away. According to the date, he wrote this on September the 23rd.” 

“Today is the first of October,” Detective Madej said, scratching the end on his Achilles nose. “It's been almost a whole week, so why hasn't he sent it yet?” 

The question stayed in the air for a while before Bergara says: “Maybe he hadn't gotten the chance to do so.” He thought for a second, staring at the body of the cheating man. Dead before telling the whole political world about the woman he had brought into him and his wife's bed-- wait… “Poppy Colours won the custody of his children, right?”

Madej nodded, “Yeah. He's only allowed to be with them on the weekends.” He stared at the shorter detective and then looked at the body at his feet. “You think she killed him?” 

Bergara looked down at the letters. “I do.” 

“Why would he kill her ex-husband? She already has custody of the children, killing him is -- no pun intended -- overkill.” 

“Maybe that's what she wanted,” Bergara said. 

Madej shrugs, “Alright, okay. But is there a reason of killing Harmon? The whole affair thing wasn't even exposed yet, so it couldn't be that reason.” 

“What if she already knew?” offered the younger detective. 

Detective Madej hummed and looked down at the body before squatting down, next to the bullet wound. With rubber gloves on, he tilted Harmon's head to look at the exposed inside of the head, seeing some white bone from the skull and blood being cupped inside a bit where most of the brain was supposed to be. Supposed. Now that brilliant brain is on the wall. “He has nice eyes. Has? Had? Has.” 

Bergara looked up from the letters and made a face of disgust at his companion. “Only you would look at a dead body like that. Creep.” 

“I've been in the business for ten years now,” Madej said, not looking up but still smiling at the comment. “I've seen so many dead bodies and now don't think much of it.” 

Shaking his head, Detective Bergara smiled just a bit. “All I’m saying is that the wife did it,” he waved the letters around, catching the smell of ink on the old paper. And it’s expensive paper too, it smells like a library. And it’s going to take a couple of hours for the body to start to smell so Bergara is happy for the almost fake nostalgic smell of being in the Academy, smelling the old pages in the library with a highlighter in his hand and glasses on his nose. “We got the letters to prove it too.” 

“Now, now, Watson,” Detective Madej said as he stood up straight. “We just can’t hop a long to point your 12 year old finger to a woman that we don’t even know.” 

“It’s the fucking ex-wife, Madej.” Bergara stood his ground, balling his fists and crumbling the letters in his hands. 

“You sound like a child,” Madej said as he takes off the rubber gloves. “Come along. We have to go back.” The taller man walked towards the door, giving his back at Bergara, feeling his squinting eyes trying to burn into him, it was no use. It was like being intimidated by a toddler. He stopped and turned around, he gestured at the door. “We have to leave, Ryan. Put those letter backs, Ryan. We have to go before the real detective come.” 

The shorter nodded, finally calming down. He scurried to put the letters into the hollow book and took of the gloves. Shane smiled and opened the door, “That was enough of us playing pretend for the day, Ryan.” 


	2. DAY 2 -- FALSE IDENTITY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its late, I know. I'm sorry.

“Sir, you have to calm down,” Sophia said, holding her hands folded on her chest as she stared at him. She looked like doll to Tinsley, large but somehow almond shaped brown eyes that looked like something from a painting. That painting of children with large eyes as just stare right at you with haunting eyes. And not to mention how this girl dresses up. 

 

“Calm down?” Tinsley’s voice cracked in how that absurd that sounded at the moment. “You want _me to calm down?_ When that-that psycho had a knife up to throat only a few minutes ago?” He rubbed his face with his hands, which was a terrible idea because his hands had grown clammy, but he was too scared to even care. His heart was in his throat, beating loudly and his legs felt like he might give out on him. “You… You have to tell me that you saw that? That you _saw it._ ” 

 

Sophia sighed, head falling down almost too cartoonish-like. “Sir, Mr. Tinsley, please sit down,” she said as she slowly and calmly sat Tinsley on one of the stools and scurrying away to put on a kettle and taking out a mug from the cupboard. 

 

Tinsley still had his head in his hands, trying to even out his breathing. “Who the hell he think he is?” 

 

“He’s Mr. Goldsworth,” the young girl spoke in a tone that sounded that it should be ‘'the sky is blue’’ or ‘’roads are made of cement’’. Not “he held a knife against your throat because he wanted to”.

 

His shoulders shook as he started to laugh, that nervous fake laugh that's an instinct to cope with a situation. Tinsley rubbed his nose with his wrist and swallowed a stone in his throat. “Why… Why did I even follow him?” Now he sounded like he was going to cry, tears gathered in his eyes as he stared at the shiny shoes that Goldsworth had ordered him to wear. 

 

It took him awhile to realize that he  _was_ crying. Tears had spilled from his eyes and landed on his trousers. A sob crawled itself up his chest to leave his mouth. Oh God, he was crying. 

 

Tinsley flinched when he felt something on his cheek, soft silk on his tear-stained cheeks. He blinked away some tears from his eyes to see Sofia cleaning his face with a handkerchief. 

 

She smiled at him, a child's smile that would come from being tired and going to bed but was able to flash their mother one last smile before closing their eyes. “Now, Mr. Tinsley, calm down. You'll grow used to being here.” She forced the handkerchief into his hand. 

 

He cleaned his face with the soft pink handkerchief, and it smelled like strawberries. Somehow, that calmed him down just a bit. Even if she meant that he's going to be stuck here for as long as he might live-- and it might be a short time. 

 

“It's going to be okay, sir,” she said soothingly as she rubbed his shoulder. “Just listen to him and do as he pleases. Maybe you'll grow to be his favorite.” 

 

Tinsley was going to ask what she meant by that when the kettle began to whistle. She quickly turned off the stove and poured the boiling water into a black mug, dropping a tea bag before handing it to Tinsley. “It's still hot, Sir. So be careful.” 

 

Nodding and in a daze, Tinsley handed her her handkerchief back as he took the cup of tea. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the bone push against his skin. Memories of breaking his nose when being pushed around as child. Tinsley stared at his own blurry reflection in the warm liquid. 

 

She sighed, sounding tired. . “It’s going to be okay, just… nod along and do what you are told.” 

 

“Is that what you did?” Tinsley slurs, voice heavy from post-fear. He’s still shaking it off too, and the tea seemed to help a bit. He took a sip and he realized that the tea had gotten too cold for his liking, it still tasted good though. 

 

Sophia froze, she was drying some cups and she just stopped-- put paused on. But she didn’t look uncomfortable at the question just… surprised? “No,” she says as she continues to dry the cup. “I didn't do that.” 

 

Tinsley stared at her. He could only imagine what Goldsworth did to her. In the few hours of being in the same room as Goldsworth made him crawl up the wall in fear. Those were only a few hours. Imagine for her. Imagine how she feels after who knows how long it has been for her. “How long have to been with him?” Tinsley asked, natural curiosity pushed the question out of his mouth. 

 

“Since I was six,” Sophia said, not batting an eye at the question. Used to the question, she seemed to be. 

 

Tinsley gulped when he realized that. “And you're fourteen?” 

 

“Fifteen going on sixteen,” she hummed in a familiar song that he might have sung in high school theater. 

 

“Ten years,” he gasps. Tinsley look at her, ready to cry again but this is not just for himself. But for her. This child looked so doll-like, pretty and put on display like a prize-- like a toy -- for ten years of her life. He could only imagine what he did to her to be like this. For her to listen to all he has to say and nod along, to obey and never question. For her to naturally put on a nice dress, fix her hair, and slap a bow on the top of her hair without being threaten to do so. 

 

But he understands, he understands that a trauma like that makes you do things. Stockholm syndrome, he decides. She has accepted it and doesn't fight, just smiles and nods and does what she's told. Even if its not chores or work like the maids do, but work anyways. 

 

And judging by how much Goldsworth trusts her with everything, it is a type of work that he would shudder to think about. 

 

“Ten years of your life with that… that _psycho_!” Tinsley raises his voice, angry for her situation. Him raising his voice was enough for her to look up at him with arched eyebrows. “You're young, _you're a child!_ You shouldn't be working for a fucking criminal, you should be able to do your life and play outside with kids your age. Go to the mall, sneak into the movie theater, watch a horror movie, sneak a beer, eat junk food while you still can. Not being with that psychotic son of a bitch--” 

 

“He is more than just a murderer, Tinsley,” Sophia snapped at him, sounding angry at him. Insulted even. “Mr. Goldsworth is more than a murderer that goes on killing people. He is a man with reason. He is a man with ambitions. He is a man that  _feels_. He  _is not a psychopath!_ You will never know him like I know him!” 

 

The sound of glass shattering made her and Tinsley jump. He looks at the source of the sound to see the glass cup in Sofia's hand shattered into pieces. It must have been rather thin for her to crush it like it was nothing. That or she was very strong. Tinsley swallowed dry at that possibility. 

 

Blood dripped from her hand, the glass must have cut her up a bit. Tinsley saw her look down at her hand, eyes going back to calm and hollow. She just stared at it, trying to understand what happened. Then the pain kicked in when she tried to move her hand, she hissed and pulled her wrist up to her chest, hiding it from nothing and everything. 

 

Worry then kicked Tinsley in the chest and hurried to press the past handkerchief into the palm of her hand where the cut was. “Keep it there, put pressure on it,” he soothed, the same way she did to him only minutes ago. Blood stainned the pink silk cloth into a dark red turning brown. Quickly, he took off his tie and wrapped it around the now-red cloth and he tied it with a tight knot, making her cry out. “Its okay. Its okay. Just calm down and don't move your hand and--” 

 

“ _What is going on here?_ ” 

 

Tinsley jumped ten feet into the air at the sound of Goldsworth's voice. His first reaction was to push himself away from Sophia but worry kept him at her side. “She-- I…” 

 

“I broke a cup, Sir,” Sophia winced in pain. “I broke it, it cut me, and I'm sorry. It wasn't Tinsley's fault. It was mine.” 

 

But it was my fault, he wanted to say to defend her but she was already defending him. So there's no use for him to waste his breath like that. 

 

Goldsworth's eyes narrowed, glassy eyes that made Tinsley gulp as he made his way close to them. He was short, yes but he was strong. That he knew very well, still feeling the iron grip on the collar of his shirt when he first bumped into him. “Let me see,” he demanded. 

 

Expecting for Sophia to hide her hand, she slowly extended it, showing it to him. The tie and handkerchief covered the cut but some blood was still dripping down her arm and on her fingers. 

 

Goldsworth took her hand, freezing when she winced a little but continued when she stopped whimpering. “You'll need stitches. Go to Kelsey I. She'll stitch you right up, Child.” 

 

Tinsley never expected Goldsworth, a man that seemed like glitz and glamour and gore to say that so… nurturing. He stared at the shorter in honest to God shock. 

 

“Yes, Sir,” Sophia said whilst nodding and walked only a few steps away from them when Goldsworth stopped her to speak with her. 

 

Tinsley couldn't hear what they were saying but he could tell that it was an intimate secret. 

  
  
  


“Are you alright?” Goldsworth asked to the young girl. 

 

Sophia nodded. “It hurts but I'll be okay after the stitches, Sir.” She bit her lip and her eyes darted to a side-view glance towards Tinsley. “It wasn't his fault, it was mine. So don't harm him too much for something he didn't do.” 

 

Goldsworth sighed but gave a slight nod. “You know very well that--” 

 

“Please,” she whispered even lower. “For me.” 

 

He looked at her with soft eyes that she will only witness when he speaks to her. Goldsworth smiled just a bit, a subtle but still there. She wore her favorite dress today and now it will be stained with blood that she didn't shed on purpose. He would never make her touch a dead body, he rather hang to witness her do harm like he does to others. “Alright, Child.” 

 

“Thank you, Sir,” she smiled and have a small nod and hurried to her hand fixed. And Goldsworth fell for her a little bit more, and only him will fall for her like he does now. No father can love their child even more than he loves her.

  
  
  


Tinsley flinched when Goldsworth's head wipped back towards him, he took a step back when the other took a step towards him. “You are lucky that she has a soul, Tinsley.” 

 

He took slow and calculating steps, there was a predatory glint in his eyes. The same way he looked at him when he had a knife to his throat. “She wouldn't hurt a fly if she wanted to, and someone hurting her… well, he's a dead man walking.” Goldsworth stopped, only an arm lengths away from him but instead of ripping his throat out, he picked one of the shards of broken glass from the sink and stared at it. There was almost no blood visible from the shard as he held it up against the light and stared at it, inspecting it like a ring maker would look at a new diamond. 

 

“Give me your hand,” Goldsworth said.

 

His first instinct was to run, but there was nowhere to run. Tinsley was cornered. He then whimpered, almost knowing what he was going to do to him, while shaking his head. Tinsley yelped when he felt a strong hand pin his hand to the sink and having the sharp end of the shard close to the palm of his hand. “If you close your hand, I will cut one of your fingers off,” Goldsworth growls and Tinsley's hand opens, shaking in fear. 

 

Tinsley was taking in hard breaths, scared of what he could do to him in a heartbeat. “Mr. Tinsley, may I ask you something?” Goldsworth taunts as he scrapes the palm of his hand with the glass. 

 

He let out a squeak and thrashed to move away but he was pinned down. He felt the glass dig in deep, hard and present but not cutting skin at all. “Use your words, Tinsley.” 

 

“Yuh-Yes…” he stutters and pants. 

 

“What was that?” Goldsworth says as he digs the glass even deeper, still not piercing skin. 

 

“Yes, Mr. Goldsworth, Sir!” Tinsley whimpers, terrified. 

 

Making a small circular motion with the glass, the murderer says, “What is your profession in life? I'm rather interested.” 

 

Taking shallow breaths, Tinsley says: “I… I'm a detective, sir. I work for the LAPD…” he reminded him. Tinsley reminded him that he has a job that he was to go to everyday, that someone was waiting for him, that he has work to do. 

 

“Yet you're an idiot,” spoke the murderer harshly.

 

“Wh… What?” Tinsley gulped and cried out when the sharp glass caught itself on the creases of his hands. 

 

“I said you're an idiot,” Goldsworth whispered close to Tinsley's ear, hot breath tickling his eardrum. “And do you want to know how I know that?” 

 

He sobbed out when he felt the glass finally pierce skin just a tiny bit. “Do you?” growled the murderer. 

 

“Yes! Yes I do, Mr. Goldworth, sir!” sobbed and trashed the foolish detective. 

 

“Because you've been stalking me for a whole year and you still don't know much of me,” he says. “Oh… I think it was more than a year. Right?” When Tinsley didn't answer, Goldsworth pressed his elbow into the detective's back in between his shoulder blades. “Well? Answer me!” 

 

“Two years!” Tinsley sobbed. “Two years and almost three!” He winced when Goldsworth digged the shard deeper and he felt blood come out just a bit. 

 

Goldsworth leaned in close, too close that there was barely any space between them. He was sure that Goldsworth could feel his heart beat and how his throat clicked every time he swallowed dry. “Well, _Detective,_ ” he drawled it out mockingly, “I'm about to ruin all your research by saying this--” he whispered right into Tinsley's ear-- “Ricky Goldsworth is not my real name.” 

 

Pain gathered in Tinsley's palm and he screamed. He screamed so loud that it echoed in the house. He felt it twist and blood dripped and poured out before everything went dark.


	3. DAY 3-- MAFIA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me posting twice in one day??? Most likely than you think, baby!

Night sighed as he rubbed his wrist, he must have pulled something by swinging the bat too hard. It hurts but it'll go away when he's going to slap a packet of ice on it after work was over. And it might end in a couple of hours.

His “work” coughed, blood splattering from his mouth. His teeth were covered in blood as he tried to breathe. Night was sure he broke his nose but he wouldn't be that sure yet. Jonathan Grosse, working for the Italian mob on the other side of town. It took him a Hell of a trip just to bring Jonathan here. 

“Let's play Baseball!” Night exclaimed excitedly, sounding like an eight year old begging their dad to play outside. He went to position, he kept his stance wide, shoulder square but loose. “What's the code for the safe?” 

“No,” Jonathan whispered. He was loyal, that was almost sweet. Almost.

Night swung his bat and yelled “Strike one!” He hit Grosse on the chest, making him wheeze in air, making him choke on the blood he had in his mouth. 

Jonathan's one blonde hair was turning brown in some places because of the blood. When Night first saw him, he almost felt sorry for the kid. He was young, was going to get married, might even have kids. Was. Jonathan was going to do all of that until Night Night was assigned to torture the information out of him. The moment he lays his eyes on you, your funeral will be that same night. 

Maybe that's why Night carved the word “S O RR Y” into his bat. He did feel bad, but work is work. Oh well. 

“Let's try again, shall we?” the Mafia member murmurs as he leans down to look at Johnathan, picking up his head by his chin. “What's the code for the safe, kid?” 

Jonathan's mouth parted to speak and instead of a series of numbers, it was a faint “no.” 

Night picked up the bat and hit him on same shoulder he had dug a piece of glass covered in alcohol in. Jonathan cried out, almost screaming while blood flew from his mouth. “Strike two, baby!” 

Now he was crying, tears cleaned his blood stained face. And sadly, Night felt even sorry. Coincidences suck. 

He took in a deep breath and gripped the bat tight. Night looked at Jonathan, the poor kid was sobbing and struggling against the rope that kept him on the chair. Something inside of Night was telling to just let him go, to just untie him and make him disappear and start a new life away from the mob. Is that what he wanted for him or for himself. 

“Fu… fuck you,” cries Jonathan, all blood cakes his face, especially around the nose and mouth. He was also growing a black eye on his left eyes while cuts litter on his cheekbones. 

Man, Night surely went overboard. 

His face grew dark, eyes driven with blood lust. Night rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. He wonders if Freddy can wash out his shirt later. “What's the code for the safe?” Night demanded, knowing very well he's going to swing even harder this time, he can feel it. Anger bubbling in him, making his whole body tense and twitchy and ready for another dose of sadism. 

“I'll never tell you!” 

He picked up then bat. “Alrighty--” 

“No wait!” 

Damn it. Night actually wanted this to keep on going, he had nothing to do so this seemed like neutral fun. “What is it then?” he asked, poking Johnathan with the end of the bat on the thigh, where he dug a knife into. 

Jonathan gasped and coughed for air and whimpered softly: “It's 18-03-08.” 

Before Night had the chance to do anything, he heard the door open. He didn't have to turn around to know who it was. “Hey, Legs,” he said, looking over his shoulder. 

He saw the tall, looming figure that he was so familiar with. Whose nickname was accurate and spot on. Legs had… well, long legs. It made up 80% of his tall and slim body. He was wearing a black-and-white plaid suit with a high collared sweater underneath. Legs shaved the oncoming beard, Night noticed. “Don't smoke in here, you're going to stink up the place,” Night said, turning around completely this time. 

Legs shrugged. “You were having fun, I thought of stopping by. So here I am.” He walked to stand next to him, staring at Jonathan Grosse, who might pass out any minute now. Legs looked at the barely-alive body and tilted his head, inspecting the situation with a lit cigarette in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. “I will never understand why you like getting your hands dirty. Just shoot the guy!” 

“That's because you're the sniper, Legs,” Night said, bat on his shoulder and the other hand on his hip. “I'm the one beating the information out of the guy. You just--” he put the bat in both hands and pointed at an invisible target “phew!” 

The taller chuckled, smoke floating out of his nose. “And you’re just slowly kill the guy. Why?” 

Night looked at Grosse and squinted his eyes, as if looking for the answer in his blood stained short and broken bones. “Is it fun?” Legs asked, taking the cigarette.

“Its neutral fun,” Night admits with his eyes still glued onto Grosse. “There’s nothing to do so I’m just doing work.” 

Nodding, Legs smiled and blew smoke into the air, the smell making Night Night coughed and step away. “Hey, wanna get a drink after this? Golden Boy and Knife are playing around with the liquor downstairs.” 

“And miss the chance to see them drunk again?” Night asked, a smile on his face made the fact that he was beating a guy to death only a minute ago. “But sure,” he shrugged, “let me just wrap things up here and I'll be down in a minute.” 

Legs smiled, dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. Right before exiting, he stopped and turned to look at Night. “Your brother called by the way,” he said in monotone. 

“Fuck him,” Night said as he picked up the bat and was ready to swing at Grosse's head. “He can go rot in Hell for all I care.” 

“You know, you never told me why you wouldn't talk to him.” 

Night gripped the bat as tight as he can, arms shaking as he lifted it up and swung it right across Grosse's head, hearing it crack. “After what Ricky did, he lost the title of being my brother.”


	4. DAY 4-- HEIST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ship????? Maybe????

_ October 4, 2018. _

_ 8:30 A.M _

_ Los Angeles, California, U.S.A, North America _

_ Urban Height Museum of Art. _

 

_ This was the report that was written when six paintings, two statues, and three historical files were stolen from an Art Museum. We as a society, we are used to getting the point of view of the “good guys”, the cops, the detectives. Well, now we're flipping the script-- everyone's voice in deserved to heard. _

 

_ *A week before*  _

 

Banjo smiled wide at the man that was sitting down right in front of him, his eyes shimmering with bubbly excitement. “Nice to see ya’ again, Ricky!” 

 

Goldsworth's face was blank at the comment and just sat down, crossing his legs under the table over the ankle, pressing the heel of his dress shoes against Banjo's foot. Ricky picked up the menu on the table and began to read, not putting any attention towards the man in front of him. 

 

“Jeez, for so someone so rich maybe you should buy yourself some manners,” McClinkton muttered when a waitress walked by. He then gasped when Goldsworth's foot brushed against his thigh, hard. 

 

“Don't make regret getting out of the house, Banjo,” the murderer said in monotone but still a threat not the least. 

 

McClinkton nodded. “Yeah, I know, boss. You're the man.” Banjo's face went pink with nervousness, having a man that kills for a living put his foot on you would make anyone nervous. 

 

When he said that, Ricky looked up from the menu, not even reading it, just an excuse to not look at Banjo. But he's now looking at him, those eyes that make people's blood run cold when he glares, those eyes that you might see when you feel the life drain from your body, those eyes that Banjo want to have stare at him for the rest of his days. “Why did you call me?” 

 

Banjo swallowed, pulling himself from those eyes. “I have a plan. I--” 

 

“No,” Ricky dismisses. 

 

“But--” Banjo tries to finish his statement but his mouth snapped closed when the heel of Goldsworth’s shoe presses against his ankle, and a small squeak slipped out. 

 

“If you brought me out to this shitty cafe just to waste my time to listen one of your stupid plans I’ll--” 

 

“The museum downtown is having a new exhibit next weekend,” Banjo blurted out, pain gathered around the area of where the murderer’s heel was pressed against him. It stayed there until Goldsworth slowly removed pressure from it but kept it there as a warning. 

 

Banjo looked at Goldsworth and almost has a heart attack when he locked eyes with him. His heart leaped a thousand feet into the air and his stomach fell into itself. I want those eyes in my life, he thought. “Spill it, McClinkton. And don’t waste my time.” 

 

Shaking, Banjo nodded and his mouth twitched into a nervous smile. “The museum is having a new exhibit nest weekend. Its from the artist Holly Horsley, right after her death, she wrote that she wishes to donate all of her pieces to museums all around the country. Horsley’s ‘tour’s’ third stop is here in L.A.” 

 

“Where do I come into this?” Ricky says, waving over a waitress to ask for tea. Oh, so he _was_ going to listen to him. Banjo’s heart swelled with pride and smiled at him, bright and prideful. 

 

“I need a small loan,” McClinkton asked, fast as possible. “And some advice.” 

 

Ricky blew on the tea before taking a sip from the cup, making a face that Banjo recognized the ‘'this is far too cheap for my taste” look. Banjo had grown familiar by the looks on Ricky's face, even if he has only known him for a short time and barely has the chance to see him. “How much?” 

 

“$2,000,” he said. 

 

“That little?” Ricky said. “I expected more from you, Banjo.” 

 

The art thief shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “I ask very little from you, Ricky.” 

 

And what happened next, honest to God, Banjo would have sighed and turned red when Goldsworth smiled at him. A genuine, nice smile. Seeing someone like him smile is as rare as it snowing in a warm climate. And right now, Banjo felt like the luckiest soul in the world by seeing him smile. 

 

Before he knew it, Ricky got out his checkbook and signed for the amount McClinkton asked for. He was going to give it to him when Ricky suddenly moved the check away from his reach, confusing the art thief. “Do me a favor,” Ricky said.

 

“Anything, Ricky,” Banjo said with total honesty. Even if killing people wasn't McClinkton's cup of tea but he would do pretty much anything for him, even killing a man just because Ricky wanted him to. 

 

A smile spread on his face. “Get me something from there, you know my tastes as well as I do.” 

  
  
  


Holly Horsley's most famous painting, ‘'The Blind Man”, was gone from its place when the guards discovered its empty place. It was worth over than $100,000, and it was gone. Vanished in thin air. 

 

And Ricky smiled when he watched the news and then turned his head only a bit to see the painting on his wall. 

 

It's a particular painting. A man stands in the middle of a street, surrounded by busy people as they ignore him. Everyone is in a dark color scheme, except for the messy lines that cover the man's eyes. Making him blind. 

 

Ricky was quite fond of it. He and Horsley were friends before her tragic passing. Such a shame people wanted her dead. 

 

“He fancies you, you know,” Sophia said as she embroiled on a white piece of cloth, it was going to be a new handkerchief, he could tell. “He fancies you a lot, sir.” 

 

“I'm very aware of that, Child,” Goldsworth says. 

 

Sophia hums and looks up just temporarily to see Tinsley in the kitchen, with a bandage around his wrist and on his hand. She looks back before Tinsley had the chance to look up to see her staring at him. “At least throw him a bone, sir. It's quite evil for you just to use him like that. And I know very well that this isn't your style.” 

 

Goldsworth waved Tinsley over, like calling over a waiter, and the taller did so. Falling into his place. He whispered something to his ear, making Tinsley to stand up straight just a bit and look at him, confused. Goldsworth glared at him, making Tinsley pale in fear and nodded as he walked away to do what the murderer said. 

 

“Me just giving him a chance to please me _is_ throwing a bone at him,” Ricky says. “And besides, I'm quite flattered to know that one of the biggest heists in history was done just to impress me. And who says romance is dead?” 


	5. DAY 5-- KIDNAPPING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late again! I know I know!

All the walls seemed to crash down on Tinsley. The four walls that made up his small bedroom seemed to began to bleed a black goo from the top of the room, from the small cracks. It ran down the walls and pooled on the floor. 

 

Tinsley felt his head fill with static as he dropped onto the floor and cower into the corner, with his face in his knees and hands on his head. It was hard to breathe, it felt like water filled his lungs and there was little space for air. He was taking in shallow breaths in.

 

It's been the third night with Goldsworth and now Tinsley began to panic. He's a detective for God's sake! He knows that after 48 hours, the person missing is a goner. It's been three days, and he's lucky he's been alive for the past 24 hours.

 

And he's worried that his luck might run out any minute.

 

Tinsley yelped when something touched his knee, it felt small and it brushed against him. He didn't look. He  _couldn't_. He feared that it might be Goldsworth being tired of waiting and ready to take him price by piece.

 

Tinsley had felt how Goldsworth stared at him. Eyes following him. Shining but also fading from any sense of life once in a while: eyes like broken Christmas lights. It was the eyes of a predator stalking their prey, waiting for the right moment to strike. 

 

It made his skin crawl and blood feel like ice. He hates it. He hates it so much that he might cry. And the fact that Goldsworth was in front of him right now didn't hurt. 

 

He couldn't imagine what he would do. He has never seen him kill anyone so his imagination ran wild-- unfortunately. Maybe he'll rip his throat out, maybe he'll slit his throat, maybe he'll torture him slowly and kill him after getting bored, maybe he won't get bored and cure him so he can keep on doing that cycle over and over again. 

 

There was another tap on his knee and it took everything to not scream. With his heart in his throat and all the few courage he has, Tinsley raises his head from his knees. If he was going to confront death, he's at least going to look at him. 

 

“Mr. Tinsley, you're crying again,” Sophia says. 

 

A wave of relief hugged Tinsley and he showed it by relaxing his shoulders and leaning against the corner he was in. Goldsworth was scary yet this child was slightly unsettling. 

 

Said child took out something from the pocket in her dress and handed it to him. He looks at it to see a handkerchief. It was white with the letter _T_ embroidered on a corner. 

 

“I made it for you, I had to lie to say it was for me,” she says, her hands folded in front of her. 

 

Tinsley looked down at it again to feel the fabric in between his fingers. It was soft but it wasn't silk like her pink one. “Thank you,” Tinsley says, unsure if he should say “Miss” or not. 

 

“It was the only way I can say thank you to you,” she says, showing the stitches in the palm of her hand. 

 

He only nods as he slowly shows her his own palm. Kelsey I just stitched it as fast as she can before wrapping it up in bandages. While Sophia's was stitched up with doctor-like expertise. 

 

Sophia then turns on her heels and was going to walk out the door when Tinsley blurts out: “Do you remember your life before being kidnapped by Goldsworth?” 

 

She stops right before she walked out the door. Sophia sighed as she slowly turned around to look at him. “I do, but I rather forget.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

The faint smile that she always has, fades. Tinsley expects her to walk away and then Goldsworth to come to beat him until a pulp, instead she just closed the door and leans against it. By the look on her face, not being loyal to Goldsworth hurts her. 

 

“How did he kidnap you?” she says, looking down at her white ballerina flats. 

 

Tinsley swallowed dry. He can still feel Ricky's hand over his mouth when Tinsley followed him out of his car. He can still feel the hard wrapped around throat as a threat. He can still feel the cement against his face when he was pinned down and knocked out. Tinsley can still feel _everything_. 

 

“I'm a detective,” Tinsley began. “I work for the LAPD and I was assigned to a string of murders two years ago. And I found out that all of those string of murders were connected to someone. That someone is Richard Goldsworth. No one believed me and my boss told me to drop the case and leave it on the UNSOLVED basket. But I didn't and--” 

 

“And you obsessed over Mr. Goldsworth,” she says, still looking down at her flats. 

 

Tinsley's breath caught in his throat. “Yes,” he cleared his throat. “More or less. But yes, I did. And I continued the case without the knowledge of my supervisor. I took all the files at home and did it myself. And figured out where Goldsworth would strike next.” 

 

“What was your first impression when you saw him?” Sophia said, dancing on the balls of her heels.

 

He took in a deep breath, remembering that so clearly. It was after a long night of investigation, there was dew blanketing the grass and the leaves of the trees were still wet from the morning drizzle and midnight storms. Tinsley had followed Goldsworth to a café, he was going to meet up with someone. Benjamin “Banjo” McClinkton, an art thief that seemed to have a crush on the murderer. 

 

Their conversation lasted only half an hour, one cup of tea, and a lot of tension and eye contact. After Goldsworth handed what Tinsley guessed was a check, Ricky stood up, fixed his suit and left. McClinkton waited, drinking a beer before leaving. Tinsley followed Ricky until he stopped into an alleyway. 

 

Tinsley waited. And waited. And waited. He got out of his car to look down the alleyway, smelling like humidity. Then he felt a hand over his mouth and was pushed down against the wet pavement, having a knee pressed on his back before being turned around and knocked out. The last thing he saw were those eyes. 

 

He looked up to see Sophia looking at him with those same eyes. Just less evil and more blank. Her eyes were blank and dark, so dark that he couldn't see her irises.

 

“What about you?” Tinsley's voice cracked. 

 

Sophia tucked her hair behind her ear and played with one of the ribbons in her hair before saying: “I wasn't kidnapped, I wanted to be with Mr. Goldsworth.” 

 

“Sophia, you were six. I doubt you knew better,” Tinsley said, sounding like the detective he is. 

 

“It was that or stay in foster care,” she says. 

 

Oh. 

 

“I should go,” Sophia says as she stands up straight from the door. “Mr. Goldsworth must be looking for me--” 

 

_“Sophia!”_ Goldsworth yelled from somewhere around the house. 

 

“On my way, Sir!” she yelled back and made her way to exit Tinsley's room and left with the door slamming shut with a long bang. 

 

Tinsley needs a way to make it out alive. 


	6. DAY 6-- CULT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS I DID IT AGAIN

The wall was so tall that he had bend his neck back just to see where it stops. Sunlight was peaking out of the top of the brick wall, a ray of yellow sunlight hit him in the face, right in the eyes. He had to squint and look away. But it was so beautiful. It was so warm, so bright, _so natural._

 

He touched the wall, the bricks were hard and even a bit sharp. The fact that there was another world right outside this wall was so alluring to him. That the Outside World was full of so many things. But, according to his mother, there's terrible things outside. That monsters, ghost, demons, aliens roam on the Outside World and that the Wall protects them. 

 

He raises his hand to the sunlight and flinched when he felt how warm it was. But then moved it back, to have the sun in his hands. 

 

Then the Bells rang. Damn it, it's time for Church. 

 

Bergara moved his hand away and looked at it, still feeling the warmth in his hand. He wants to feel it again, but this time-- everywhere in his body.

 

***

 

He sat down next to his family. They were the Bergara Family. They call you by your last name. His father is Father Bergara, his mother is Mother Bergara, he's First Bergara and his brother is Second Bergara. Everyone is called by their last name and your position in the household matters in society. If you're the first born, you're called “First” if second “Second” and continued so. 

 

First Bergara saw how the Nine Priests dipped the glass in the blazing fire and slowly molded it into a tube form. The Third Priest pointed at the House and said: “Bless the light from our Savior!”

 

“Bless the light!” everyone repeated. Even First Bergara said it back, but it was a murmur instead of him speaking in his full voice. 

 

Once the glass tube dried and stayed in its new form, they set it up next the other five tubes and connected it. Making six in total. Each tube represent ten years from after the War. Now it's been 60 years. 

 

At the click of a button, the six tubes were flooded with neon light. The Nine Priests bowed their heads at the light before the Sixth Priest gestured the House to stand up. 

 

The first row stood up and made their way to the light. He knew the family. They were the Lims. He plays with First Lim sometimes. The Lims are very loyal to the Nine Priests, going to the Church three times a week to pray. 

 

The Lims bowed their heads at the six tubes and prayed before leaving. And they took a long time too. 

 

Then it was was the Illnyckyjs. They're a nice, quiet family that don't say much. Mother Illnyckyj is a nurse while Father Illnyckyj is a teacher at the School. Their son is quiet, so quiet that First Bergara doesn't known what the son likes. 

 

And then the family in front of them where the Madejs. They were the odd ones in the City. Father Madej own his own little shop that sell about everything while Mother Madej is just a stayed-home mom. But their sons were the odd ones. First Madej hung around the library with about no one-- he had no friends, while Second Madej was those kids that will talk back to the Teachers and throw a punch just because. 

 

First Madej bowed and prayed for what was probably one minute before leaving and going back to his seat. Second Madej was...interesting. He had a weird face. He looked like a sloth from the textbooks at school, and he had a weird nose. Yet it was very… charming, in a strange way. 

 

Second Madej stood in front of the light and let his head drop, like a single nod. Not a bow. And it made everyone uncomfortable. Second Madej didn't even prayed, he just stayed there for four seconds and left. 

 

He looked at First Bergara and flashed him a smile and a wink. First Bergara's mouth twitched with a smile. 

 

Then it was them, the Bergaras. Mother and Father Bergara stood up while First and Second followed behind them. When it came for First Bergara to bow his head and pray, he did so.

 

_ Holy Light of Our Savior, thank you for six decades of protection from the Outside world. I know that my curiosity is sin, to question your reasoning and power is blasphemous. I understand that I must punish myself for it. And I understand that I must keep doing the punishment until I learn my lesson. Thank you for the life you gave us. _

 

He picked himself up and walked back to his seat. He walked past Second Madej, sitting back with his arm crossed over his chest with a slight smug smile on his face. 

 

First Bergara looked away. He never wished for Church to fly by like he did right now.

 

***

 

“First Bergara, First Bergara!” Second Rodriguez said, running up to him. She was dragging along her twin brother by the sleeve of his sweater. It was after Church and many families went home. First Bergara was in the Church playground, alongside other kids. Even though he has grown out the swings, he likes the memories the place held.

 

“Yes, Second Rodriguez?” he said, looking up from the Holy Book. 

 

“Can you tell me who's taller?” she said as she twisted her and her brother to be back-to-back. 

 

He looked at them and said: “SR, your shoulders are wider and higher. But First Rodriguez is taller.” 

 

“Told you so!” First Rodriguez said.

 

“No you ain't!” she said. “It's just your stupid hair, Ian!” 

 

First Bergara then dropped the Holy Book on his lap and covered his ears. What's with everyone breaking the rules today? Nobody's supposed to yell out their first name, it's too personal. Only family or lovers are allowed to use your name. 

 

“Why is everyone breaking the rules today?” First Bergara says, squeezing his eyes shut. 

 

***

 

Mother Bergara had taken him and his brother to the market after dinner. First Bergara didn't eat anything as his punishment. Tomorrow he has to do the same thing for having to been present when Second Rodriguez said her brother's name. 

 

“Don't we need milk?” Second Bergara said to his mother. 

 

Before Mother Bergara could open her mouth, the sound of people talking and yelling was enough for them to look. 

 

Some Officials were dragging a boy, he looked older than First Bergara and he looked like-- 

 

“One of the Rebels!” someone in the crowd yelled. A crowd gathered around the Officials and the Boy. They threw him on the ground and stepped on his back to pin him down, but he didn't fight. He just coughed and put his hands up, showing the Rebels’ sign in the palm of his hand. 

 

_ The Sun.  _

 

“I am Clancy, son of Robert Sun!” the Rebel said as the Officials picked him up. “I am the leader of the Rebels! We will reveal the secrets of the Church until the last of us die! But we can't! Once you plant the seed, the pollen will spread!” 

 

One of the Officials took out their baton to hit the Rebel in the stomach. 

 

“We will win!” the Rebel said. “But no everyone will get out!”

 

Blood was shed as his body dropped on the ground. And Sun was right. A new generation of rebels will appear. 


	7. DAY 7-- AMONG US

Ryan is a naturally paranoid guy. He always was. Always will be. Yes, he can admit that it's stupid and silly to be constantly scared of nothing and everything. But he's getting better. 

 

Yet, there's times where his heart starts to beat like crazy in the middle of the street, or he starts to sweat cold when he's at work, or when a shiver goes up his spine when he's walking alone in the parking lot at night. And he tells himself that he's alright, that many people would feel scared randomly if they were in those situations.

 

But when with all that reasoning, he still feels something. 

 

Eyes staring at him when he's in a crowd of people, hands reaching for him from under his desk, mouths twisting into evil grins that hides in Ryan's own shadow. That _has_ to be something. 

 

It has to. 

 

Today was one of the few instances where Ryan decided to be healthy. Instead of calling a Lyft or an Uber, he walks to the bus stop. It rained last night, meaning that the sidewalk was wet and some people had their umbrellas on them. 

 

He waits there. He was alone on the bus stop. And something felt off. Then, it felt like something from a movie, the ground underneath him seemed to have vanished. It was like when you watch a movie and the camera zooms in close in the protagonist's face. But Ryan was able to see it. It was like he was pulled out of his body, floating somewhere high in clouds. 

 

Ryan was somewhere. He didn't know if it was physical or not. He didn't know if he died and he had turned into a ghost. 

 

He had fallen into a sunken place; a Purgatory of such. He feels awake and asleep at the same time. It soothed him, made him drowsy.

 

“Sir?” 

 

Ryan fell back into reality like being pushed into water. He gasped and looked around. His heart was beating so slow that it was very possible for him to be considered dead if he was taken into a hospital. 

 

He wasn't on the ground, so he didn't faint. So why was he… gone? 

 

“Sir, are you okay?” someone said in front of him.

 

Ryan blinked and then he found himself, still on the bus stop with the bus stopped right in front of him. The bus door was open as the bus driver was staring at him with a worried look. 

 

His mouth was suddenly dry and all he could manage was nod. 

 

Even though he felt fine, he also felt like something was reaching out for him from the darkness of the bus’ shadow.

 

***

 

“Are you okay, Ryan? You look peakish.”

 

“Who the fuck says ‘peakish’ anymore?”

 

“Me, and I'm serious right now,” Shane says, rolling over on his swivel chair, which was just like three half steps because they're fucking neighbors desk-wise. “I've been throwing my best insults that I could think of last night at you and you're not saying anything. It's frankly a waste of material.” 

 

Ryan pushed him away but Shane scooted back next to him. “Nothing's wrong. Just sick with a headache.”

 

He could feel his friend look at him and he was relieved that he could actually _see_ what was watching him. “Ryan Bergara, you are a terrible liar.” 

 

“I am actually a great liar, asshole.” 

 

Shane wiggle his eyebrows and smiles smugly. “So you admit you were trying to lie.” 

 

Ryan made a face of defeat and sighed. “Fuck off,” he said, not meaning it. 

 

Shane stood up and said, “I was just trying to help. And if you want to continue feeling like shit then just must enjoy being sick.” He the walked away with his mug. Asshole.

 

Asshole, Ryan thought again as he shifted in his seat to look at his computer. He put his hands on the keyboard but wasn't able to type. That Feeling came.

 

It made it difficult to breathe, feeling how his lung would expand. His heartbeat started to pick up too, his hands sweating against the keyboard. He remembers feeling like this when he was a child, when he broke something and he heard his mother coming up the stairs and he knows what's coming next. But this right now, was x10. Or x20. He didn't know. He couldn't think right now. Sweat had rolled down from the back of his neck to down his back. Ryan's throat clicked when he tried to swallow. 

 

All he could hear was his heart in his ear, beating loud and hard and fast. His skin felt too tight, like he was in the sun for too long and he was close of getting sunburnt. 

 

But the worst thing of all of this was that he could /feel/ someone. He could feel that Someone's eyes glued on him; he could feel that Someone's presence getting closer and closer until he's right next to him. He could feel how they walked behind him and was only centimeters from his ear. He could imagine that Someone's voice. It would slither out like a snake's tongue. It would lick his ear as long nails will grab his shoulders and dig it so hard that he'll bleed. 

 

Even if Someone's behind him, Ryan can see its eyes. Eyes that seem human and nonhuman at the same time. Like eyes staring at you when you were little and you saw them in your half closed closet door, as the darkness slowly poured out because Someone can live in darkness and travel in it as well.

 

Ryan almost screamed when someone tapped his shoulder, bringing him back to reality. It was being shaken out of his sleep but without the tiredness. 

 

“Ryan, we've been calling you for the last three minutes,” the person says. It was Curly. So that means that his boss wasn't here. Yes!

 

“Oh, I'm sorry… I just don't feel well,” he said as he rubbed his hands on his jeans before rubbing behind his ear, where he felt Someone's mouth to see if It left something behind. Nothing. 

 

“You could go home--”

 

Ryan shook his head quickly. “I'm fine. Just a headache.” 

 

Curly stared at him from the top of his glasses. “Oh, hunny. You probably have some _mala vibras_ from all that ghost hunting shit. I'll bring a St. Michael candle and some sage for you tomorrow.” Someone laughed next to Curly, that's when Ryan noticed that there was another person next to him.

 

The guy was around Ryan's height, maybe shorter. He had curly light brown hair and very few facial hair on his face, mostly on his chin. He had a nose that reminded him of Shane's but less… weird. It suited the guy. The guy was dressed like a teenager but seemed to be older, maybe twenty five, with a grey hoodie and a jean jacket over it with some pins. And there was one pin that that stood out from the rest.

 

One with the bisexual flag in a shape of a heart. 

 

“This is Julian, Maya's friend's cousin. He's new here. Like, for real new.” Curly said as Julian extended his hand for a handshake. Which Ryan hesitantly took because he was sure his hands were still sweaty. 

 

“Oh? From where?” Ryan asked, taking his hand as fast and as polite he could. 

 

“Mexico. Mexico City to be exact,” Julian said, and he had an accent like Norberto's but slightly heavier. But his English was actually good. Which was a miracle because Ryan was not trying to have himself embarrassed trying to remember words in Spanish that his cousin's had thought him. 

 

“Oh! Well… welcome?” Ryan said. “Can I say welcome when Mexico is literally a stone thrown away from here?” 

 

Julian laughed a bit and smiled. “It's okay. We call California our neighbors anyways.” 

 

Curly said, “Ryan, you'll just show him around. Kelsey is the one that's going to introduce him to everyone.” 

 

“Which Kelsey?” 

 

“D.” 

 

“Oh shit, man,” Ryan then looked at Julian and whispered: “Good luck with her.” 

 

And Julian looked like unfazed by that comment and smiled. “Honestly, I feel like I might have gone through worse.” 

 

***

 

They walked around the office for a while and Ryan showed him where everything was. The recording rooms, the prompt room, the bathrooms, pretty much everything. 

 

“What's bring you to work here?” Ryan asked as they walked past the cafeteria.

 

Julian shrugs, “I wanted to get away from my sisters. Their drama was stinking up the house. So I left and came here. I already graduated so I'm good. Besides, I'm working behind the camera.” 

 

Ryan nods and says, “You'll get along with Adam then.”

 

The guest raised his eyebrow. “I don't know if that's a compliment or not.” Julian then was going to add something when his head whipped around to see something. Someone.

 

_ Somebody. _

 

Ryan looked at the direction in which he was looking at and saw It. It looked human. They stood in the middle of the cafeteria, staring at them. It's eyes were completely swallowed by darkness and a smile was as wide as It's face, ear to ear. Unsettling. 

 

Then It disappeared when people walked past It. 

 

“You saw It too?” Julian asked, eyes still on where Somebody once stood.

 

Ryan, still frozen in shock and fear, nodded. “So I'm not the only one that can see It?”

 

“No,” Julian said, peeling away from where It stood. “Everyone can feel Somebody. Some are more aware of it. Because It is among us.” 

 


	8. DAY 8-- CLONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New character who dis?
> 
> There's an almost lesbian sex scene at the end so caution.

A naked woman will always catch Freddy's attention. It will always be like that, ever since childhood she would swoon and her insides will boil when she saw her brother's _Playboy_ magazines when she saw a woman in lingerie. There was something about a woman's body that made Freddy want to crave them.

 

Maybe it was the soft curves of her skin, how the light and darkness of any skin tone was wide and naked, how the woman body was art because all was so different. That every woman's body was new planet to explore, a planet with miles of skin that twisted into valleys, mountain, forests, sometimes cracks on the skin. It beautiful.

 

But the body that stood in front of her right now was a plastic globe. Nothing like the original, a fake and artificial copy of the woman she has loved for many years. That she has explored for years on end and remembers every detail because she had marked it with fingers, lips, tongues, and gasps. 

 

The clone's body was identical to Holly's, everything from the freckles on the shoulders, the scars on the belly button and the stretch marks on the thighs. But it was all fake. 

 

“Miss Harknell,” the scientist said. “As you can see, she's identical to her. In every way.”

 

She turned to look at the scientist. “In every way?” she asked and the scientist nodded. Freddy took a step forward, standing in front of the clone, trying to ignore the draw that seemed to pull her in to touch where she knew Holly once loved. 

 

The clone smiled, showing off Holly's braces. “Hey, Freddy,” the clone said. The voice was identical to Holly's. But there's something off about it too. It seemed to echo at the end. “Are you ready?! For Jolly Holly?” 

 

Memories of Christmas made Freddy's eyes tear up. Remembering the itchy wool sweater that Holly gave her, remembering how she tackled her into a hug which ended up with a slip upper lip. Remembering all of the things they used to share. 

 

Clone Holly moved to put her fists on her hips and making her shoulders square to be in the classic _Superman_ position. A naked Superwoman. 

 

Freddy smiled just a bit, remembering her putting on nice lingerie and walking around and dancing to the radio. Remembering how Holly grabbed her hand and they danced to some song in their understeer as the sun sets on them. 

 

“Freddy, hunny bunny, I don't wanna be mean but I'm cold,” Clone Holly said, covering herself the best she can with only her arms. 

 

There was a tap on her shoulder. “So you're taking her home?” 

 

Freddy looked at the clone again. Seeing Holly's face was enough for her to either pull her into a hug or push her into the ground. So many emotions tangled inside of Freddy. The wanting of having her presence was enough for her to say yes, but that presence itself was enough for her to say no. 

 

She walked to hold her hand as they slept, she wanted to kiss her hair when they cuddled, she wanted to dance in her underwear with her-- _she wanted Holly._

 

“Yes.” 

 

***

 

Clone Holly was basically drowning in that sweater that the scientist gave her. It was basically a dress but it looked nice on her. Everything looked nice on Holly. 

 

They picked up her frizzy hair into a semi-tight bun and check everything on her, the same way doctors check on young patients. And that made Freddy want to scream. 

 

Holly was not a six year old with a cold. Holly Horsley was a thirty three year old woman that painted and draws and makes sculptures like she was a Greek artist. She was a woman that was scared of any insect that flies, she was a woman that cries when she watched a movie in which a kid dies, she was a woman that when she got too excited she would stutter in English and in French. 

 

“She's ready, Miss Harknell. You can take her home.” 

 

***

 

The clone seemed happy when they got home, the shared place that covered in dust of months of not cleaning. Freddy saw the clone as she took off her boots and put it on the small mat that's next to the door. She had taken off her coat and put it on the coat rack. 

 

“Is it just me or does it feel stuffy in here?” the clone says as she untangled her hair from the tight hun. 

 

Freddy didn't answer as she locked the door. When she turned around, she saw the Clone Holly wasn't in the living room or the kitchen.

 

The bedroom.

 

Freddy speeds to the bedroom and sees how Clone Holly had fallen into the bed, wrapping herself in the blankets as she's up against the headboard with the blankets and sheets up on her head. 

 

Clone Holly poke her tongue at her and then grinned. “It's me,” she said in a Russian accent. “A little _babushka_ woman. But I'm your little _babushka_ woman Freddy, right?” 

 

Freddy stared at her for a long time before closing the door and going to the living room. She's going to sleep there for the night.

 

***

 

After while of living with Clone Holly, she's gotten used to tuning her out. Her rambling that seemed artificial and doesn't have the same amount of passion as Holly's. There was no stuttering at the long words, there was no gasping for air when speaking in just one single breath, there was no spark in her eyes, there was nothing but her face that made her Holly. 

 

Freddy had started getting into the habit of walking past the studio after Holly died. She had locked the door shut to stop herself from drowning herself in all of the paintings and sculptures Holly was going to finish. The ones that she said she would do “later.” But now, Freddy wonders if that that was her last thoughts: “I should have finished those paintings.” 

 

So when she walked past it and saw that the door was opened, Freddy almost had a heart attack. Until she remembered Clone Holly. 

 

“Freddy, come here!” speak of the devil. “I wanna show you something, babe!” 

 

_Babe!_

 

Oh that word almost seemed to burned. Salt on a still open wound. Freddy can almost remember the first time she called her that, it happened after they just met. 9 years ago. Freddy was a college student looking for some extra cash and she saw that there was an ad for a modeling job. She went to Holly's apartment and began to pose for her. Nude. 

 

Freddy wouldn't have cared if it was a guy painting her, but this was a woman. A woman with wiry hair and large glasses and a mouth as wide as half a popsicle stick. And the way she looked at her. It was more of coping but a look of adoration and of exploration. 

 

When they were done, Holly said: “I'll pay you. Is a check alright?” Freddy nodded, not trusting her voice. Holly smiled, “And what about dinner, babe?” 

 

Freddy's insides have turned into molten lava when she said that. “Okay, let's eat out.” 

 

They both lost it at the joke. 

 

“Freddy, hunny?” Clone Holly's voice brought her back to the cruel reality of the situation that was her life. 

 

Freddy didn't say anything but walked into the studio, nostalgia and memories made her eyes sting with tears. And it didn't help to see Clone Holly sitting in the stool in front of a blank canvas with her paints in her hands. 

 

“I know it's been awhile since you've model but… do you mind?” 

 

Then, Freddy did something that later in her life she will regret because she knows it was going to be the start of something new yet terrible--

 

She stripped naked and stood where she always stood to pose. 

 

***

 

_Ghost_ was Holly's favorite movie. She remembers how when they went on their first date how Holly would ramble on and on about how much she loved it. Holly watched it a thousand times alone and a thousand times more with Freddy. 

 

Right now, Clone Holly had picked out the DVD from the shelf and popped it into the DVD player and dragged Freddy on the couch to cuddle. Clone Holly put her head on Freddy's chest, tangling her legs with Freddy's. 

 

Freddy's hand subconsciously lays on the familiar bundle of wiry graying hair. She remembers how every time she drags her short nails against her skull to drag out a sigh out of her. She did that and the reaction was the same. 

 

Its funny how Holly was older than her by six years yet acts like a child. Of course, she knows when to be serious and has a calm composure when she talks professionally but with Freddy, she acts like a child. Always happy and bouncy with a curiosity of learning. 

 

Maybe that's what Freddy wanted from her. Maybe because she grew up shy and reserve that she never had the chance to be a child. 

 

“Babe?” Clone Holly asks.

 

“Hmmm?” Freddy hums.

 

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you I love you.” 

 

And Freddy wanted to cry. Because she said that first. Because Holly stared at her after she said it. Because Holly didn't answer, looking like a deer in headlights. Because it took her such a long time to answer that Freddy panicked when she didn't until -- _“I love you too.”_

 

Clone Holly sat up slowly, with the same patience that she did when they had their first kiss, scanning for any reaction to stop but she kept on leaning toward until-- her lips were cold and felt like rubber but everything else felt like skin. Skin that goes on miles and miles and had taken time to explore and to keep on exploring. But not with this body.

 

The clone's hands travelled up Freddy's torso from under her shirt, fingernails brushing on her collarbones. Heat was radiating off of her body, bleeding through her clothing and into Freddy's body. 

 

_More more more more more,_ that was what Freddy's body wanted. Craved. Needed. Like a sweet tooth wanting to be fulfilled. She wanted it, it's been too long without her. Too long with human interaction. Human intimacy. Too long since she wanted a human with her. 

 

But the clone wasn't human. 

 

She was crying. Freddy was crying against the clone's lips. Feeling an empty sadness in her because she _wants_ it. But not a body. She wants a soul to share with. Not something warm to take pleasure from but to have the warmth of that body intertwined with her own. 

 

“Hun, are you okay?” the clone asked, forehead against Freddy's chin. “What's wrong?” 

 

“You're not her,” she whimpered. “You'll never be her.” 


	9. DAY 9-- ABDUCTION

Tinsley had learned from the maids that he's the longest man servant that Goldsworth has ever had. Well, not grown bored of and thrown out after slitting his throat. He didn't know if he should be proud of himself or not. But it was still a terrible situation to be in. Feeling watched like a piece of meat.

 

It's been a whole week, and Tinsley's luck might run out soon. Especially considering that this whole ordeal had turned into one of an “abduction”. And he didn't know if he was the only one that felt that. Kelsey I, the woman that stitched his hand up after Goldsworth forced the piece of glass into his hand, she seemed rather spaced out, quiet. There was no conversation between them while she mended to his bloody hand. 

 

Speaking of which, it still hurts too. If he moves his hands too fast, it stings like a bad cramp. And Ricky has noticed, causing him pain by throwing expensive glass items around the house and threatens him that if he drops them he'll pay with a finger or an eye. 

 

Still with all that, he has grown fond of Miss Sophia (yes, Goldsworth had told him to address her like that) and he was ever so grateful for her kindness and patience towards him. And the question of what she is to him still lingers in the air.

 

At first, Tinsley had thought she was just another servant but that was scrapped when she barely helps in the house, looking disappointed at the idea that she can't help. But then the theory of her being something similar to a Handmaid like the ones in medieval time give to royalty. And that made sense, she would be right behind Goldsworth with her hands folded in front of her, the similar way Handmaidens would walk right behind their superior. 

 

But finally, a possible reason was a rather a spine tingling one: she was a pet. Tinsley had come up with that theory when he witnessed Goldsworth fix the sleeve of her dress. A superior wouldn't do anything like that to their Handmaid. So why would he do that for her? Maybe it was the same way you fix your dog's collar. Maybe.

 

He would theorize more if it wasn't with the need to actually get out of this alive. 

 

That's when the plan came into play. 

 

There was a phone, one of those old fashioned ones that were connected to the landline. A rotary phone, he remembers the name later on in the day. But, the plan was to occupied Goldsworth, distract him, anything to have him and his little spy not in the living room. 

 

But when the picks it up, he realizes that the line was cut. So Goldsworth was smart to realize that Tinsley was planning to do that. “Shit,” he curses under his breath as he speeds away from the phone before he gets caught. 

 

So that's out of the plan.

 

Oh so he thought. Tinsley stopped when he hears Goldsworth's voice coming down the stairs. He thought he was talking to Sophia but his tone was too harsh. “... I don't care if you've been waiting for me, I'm not going to that party. What do you mean why? Because _you_ made me pay for something that I didn't do. _Well go to Hell, asshole!_ "

 

He was talking on the phone. Was. Ricky hung up on the person with a small angry noise in his throat before shoving the phone into the pocket of his trousers.

 

Ricky's face was hard with anger and there was that same sharpness in his eyes that made him seem not real. Everything about Goldsworth didn't seem real. The cartoon-ish face that would be in a Batman cartoon. The fact that he was shorter than Tinsley but can break his nose with just a single punch. The fact that he can kill him any minute. 

 

Ricky Goldsworth wasn't human, he was a tiger. 

 

“Whatcha starin’ at, long legs?” the tiger growled. 

 

Tinsley took a step back in fear. “Nothing, Mr. Goldsworth.” 

 

The murderer's eyes darkened at that, he slowly walked away from the first step of the stairs and slowly walked towards him. Heels of his dress shoes clicking on the marble floor. Unsure to what to do, Tinsley stayed still. If he runs, he might get pounced on and his throat ripped out by those teeth that smiled like sharp daggers.

 

He stared at his feet, scared to look at the Tiger. Tinsley counted to ten in his head, memories of standing in the corner in elementary school danced in the darkness when he blinked, and waited to hear the sound of Goldsworth shoes walking away. 

 

Instead, he heard those shoes walk towards him. Slowly, taunting and mocking him. Tinsley, with his eyes still on the floor in front of him, saw Goldsworth's shoes come into his line of vision. He gulped right before a punch was thrown to his stomach. Instinct to cover his stomach made his bend over but his face was caught by a firm and harsh hand. 

 

Right this moment, Tinsley was sure he was going to die. Goldsworth's eyes were like Christmas lights connected to a light switch. Turning on and off randomly. It was terrifying, especially with that smile that would be something of a horror movie. 

 

“I have to admit, Tinsley, you're actually very smart,” Goldsworth said, hand squeezing his jaw before lessening the pressure but still keeping the grip strong. “You were able to create a little plan in your head.”

 

Tinsley's heart sped up as his hands began to sweat. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow. 

 

Ricky's smile crawled across his face when he saw Tinsley's reaction. “Oh, you don't think I saw how you looked at the phone? Baby, you must think I'm stupid. Do you?”

 

Tinsley might as well have had a heart attack right there and there. His stomach had turned into seventeen knots and his legs might as well give out under him. 

 

Goldsworth digs his nails into the skin along his jaw. “I said, do you?” he demanded. 

 

“No! No, I don't, Mr. Goldsworth, sir!” It took him a couple of seconds to feel the tears running down his face. 

 

“I want you to know something, Tinsley, baby,” Goldsworth said as he kicked him in the stomach, making him fall on his knees in front of him. “You are never getting out of this house. _Ever._ ” 

 

He threw Tinsley's face away, making the thinner man fall on his side. While he walked away, Goldsworth didn't notice his empty pocket where his cell phone was.

 

Tinsley threw himself in the floor in exaggerated pain as he hugs the phone close to his chest. Detectives always improvise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think Goldsworth's relationship with Sophia is? A handmaiden? A pet? Or something else? 
> 
> I wanna hear you guys' theories.


	10. DAY 10-- MEN IN BLACK

“So how long were you been able to see It?” Ryan asked. They went to get ice cream during lunch, Julian said that it helps with the scare because your body feels weak after witnessing Somebody. It sucks out energy from your body and sugar helps it to bring it back up.

 

“I've always had the ability to feel it. Not see it. _Feel_  It,” Julian said as he popped a gummy bear into his mouth alongside a spoonful of ice cream. He made a face of sensitive teeth that made Ryan smile. “But I began to see It when I was in…” he was thinking, Ryan can see in his eyes that he was trying to remember a specific word in English-- “...in middle school? Is that a thing for you guys?” 

 

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Why? What's the word in Spanish for that?” 

 

Julian chewed a pecan. “ _Secundaria_. It's the equivalent of Middle School for Americans.” 

 

Ryan stirred his ice cream with his spoon, it was half melted thanks to the Low Angeles heat. It wasn't strange for him to actually wanting to learn Spanish. He knows some. Enough to get into a fight. And he understands most of it. The same goes with Japanese. His family members, cousins, aunts, uncles, they all know either language perfectly and when they want to have a conversation with him, he can't say most of the words. He feels alienated because of it. He can't talk to his cousins that speak Spanish fluently and he can't speak to family members that speak Japanese. 

 

He's the odd one out. 

 

Julian continued: “But I began to see It at that age of my life. Somebody was standing in the middle of the street and I screamed for It to move out of the way. That caused many cars to crash into each other. And in between the commotion, It was gone.

 

“I was called crazy after that. So I didn't say anything about It. It had ruined my life. Following me, stalking me. It wanted something from me.” 

 

“Did you tell anyone?” he asked, hands suddenly sticky from the sugar in the dessert. 

 

Julian finished the ice cream in one last spoonful while nodding. “I told my sister, Paulina, she said that I just had too much of an imagination. Which is understandable but I was telling the truth to her. Then I told my other sister, Elena, and she just pushed me out of her room.

 

“My dad works all the time so he wasn't home most of the time. So the last person to tell was my mom.” 

 

“And?” 

 

Before Julian can finished, the sound of someone's phone interrupted. It wasn't Ryan's. Julian pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. He took one look at it and made a face before slamming it on the table in disgust. “Oh now you wanna call me?” 

 

“Who is it?” Ryan asked as he looked over to try to figure that out. 

 

“My stupid ex. He didn’t call me after we broke up and then he started and every time I went to answer him he would hung up on me. If you calling me and then hanging up, then why are you even calling me?!” Julian crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, almost like a child. 

 

An awkward silence sat between them before Julian broke it with: “I’m sorry, my temper can be really bad sometimes.” 

 

Ryan shrugged, “It’s okay. So can mine.”

 

***

 

Julian and Ryan had made their way back to work, Kelsey D was already there waiting for Julian, and her eyes lit up when she saw the pink-purple-blue pin on Julian jacket. She greeted him with a high five and “bi buds!” which made Julian giggle. Actually giggle.

 

She took Julian away to introduce him to everyone while they smiled like crazy. And with that, Ryan was alone. He was alone until Shane strolled next to him quietly. “Who was that that Kelsey took away from you?”

 

“Jesus Christ!” Ryan jumped a bit when he heard his best friend talk right next to his ear. “Don’t just pop up next to me, you scared the shit out of me.”

 

“Ryan, a duck can scare you,” Shane said while taking a sip from his tea. “But you didn’t answer me. Who was he?”   
  


Ryan sat in his desk, “A new guy. He’s Maya’s cousin’s friend. He got a job here. I was just there to introduce him to the place.”

 

Shane had mimicked Ryan by sitting down in his desk, a bit far away to cross his legs in a four shape. “Cool. Was he nice?”

 

Pulling himself to his desk, Ryan shrugged. “Yeah. We have some things in common.”

 

“Like what?” 

 

It took him a moment for Ryan to realize that he fucked. He shouldn't have said that. Now what was he going to say? Saying: ‘oh he and me can see and feel the presence of something and it stalks us’ seemed like an option in being called an idiot.

 

“He likes the movies I like,” he shrugged it off.

 

His tall friend raised a single eyebrow. “So the movies we watch?” 

 

Shit he's right. “Yeah. And he likes ice cream.” Okay, now Ryan was just bullshitting and putting lies out there. 

 

“Everyone likes ice cream.” 

 

“No, Eugene doesn't like ice cream.”

 

“Yeah, because Eugene doesn't like anything that is the source of happiness for someone else,” Shane says, getting smug by the second. 

 

He was panicking and then he said something very, _very_ stupid. “Why do you care?” he snapped, pretending to be annoyed. “Are you jealous or something?” 

 

And like it was magic, Shane shuts up (which was a big surprise) and turns away slowly to look at his computer. Looking like a kicked puppy. 

 

Oh shit.

 

***

 

The rest of the day went on the same. Yet, Ryan felt rather relieved that someone was like him. That he wasn't crazy or possessed. That he wasn't alone. 

 

The smell of coffee was calming, soothing him into an almost daze. He was very tired, sleepy with the sound of people talking and their fingers against the keyboard sounded very relaxing, making him doze off. Making him almost slam his head on his keyboard.

 

He was too tired for this whole day. 

 

“Hey, Ryan, isn't that your new friend?” Shane's voice was different. He was expecting a mocking tone or even a snicker with sarcasm but he heard honesty. 

 

Ryan opened his eyes and saw Julian being escorted by three men he had never seen before. The three men were pulling Julian as he struggled to get away from their grasps. There was a terrified look in his face, that look was enough for Ryan's stomach to churned. 

 

It wasn't until Julian and the strangers exited the building and pushed him into a black car that Ryan realized that the men were wearing black.

 

The Men In Black took him away. 


	11. DAY 11-- SPACE AU

_ “Space… the final frontier in a galaxy long time ago…” _

 

“Shut up, Shane!” 

 

Shane covered his mouth as he laughed. He leaned back in his chair to watch the city's skyline. Well, space-line. Los Angeles had turned into an actually city of angels-- the city in the sky. 

 

“Did you actually quote _Star Wars_ and _Star Trek_ in the same sentence?” his friend asked. 

 

“Yes! Apparently it was popular back in the day, when the city was still on Earth.” Shane stared at the stars he has seen for many years, he has grown familiar with all of them. The alien part of him made the stars even more beautiful, eyes able to adapt to see them even more close. Shane remembers when he was a child, his mother read him an old alien story about a small alien that tried to touch a star, so they chased it, chased it so much that they almost fell out into space. He still wonders what the Youngling would have done if the star was only a few feet in front of them. Would they have tried to touch it or they would accept that their mission was complete because they chased down the star? 

 

“It was,” Ryan said, not looking up from the Holo-Pad. “But it was considered ‘'dorky” if you liked it.” 

 

“We would have been dorky together then,” Shane smiled, standing up and stretching his back.

 

Now the full-human looked up, glasses shining from the artificial lights in the room. “Where are you going?” 

 

“Tea,” said the half-human, yawning.

 

“Get me a coffee please,” the full-human said after looking back down at the pad, far too engrossed by research. 

 

“M'kay,” Shane said while walking away into the small kitchen in the Pod. Being a reported means you travel all around the city, which can be a headache. It consisted of always being in the Pod, sleeping and eating and working in a tiny space with someone else. He remembers meeting his now-best-friend, feeling a little bit worried because he was full-human and Shane… well, wasn’t. 

 

The kettle hissed like crazy before he pulled it away from the electric stove and pouring it in two cups. Shane dropped a tea bag in his own mug, seeing the water turn a bright green. Two sugars and three creams for the coffee. It might be strange to know how to make your best friend’s coffee, but he rather be strange than be an ignorant stranger to his best friend. 

 

He took the mugs back to the office space and put his tea on his area before tapping Ryan on the shoulder, who jumped a bit but took the coffee. “Thanks, big guy.”

 

Shane smiled before gestured to his human friend’s screen. “How’s it going?”

 

Ryan leaned back in his chair, the back of it brushing against Shane’s leg. “It’s fine, we still need to get that interview from the Mayor though. I can’t believe that it’s been one thousand years since we left Earth?”

 

“We fucked her up so badly. Too much pollution, plastic in the water, global warming. We didn’t deserve that planet.” The human part of him felt both sad and anger at his ancestors on his dad’s side, that they messed up the only planet they have only known, the planet that handed everything to them and humans spat in her face, that humans were so cruel to their place of origin. Human didn’t deserve Earth. 

 

Now he was thinking like his Alien Ancestors. After the Earth’s resources were sucked dry, that the air was too dirty, that the water was black, that most of the wildlife were gone, they made their way to space, that was their only option. And many Alien species came forward to help them, Shane's mother's species was one of them. It was an act of pity though, seeing humans as weaker and lesser and the equivalent to children that need a hand to hold to go somewhere knew.

 

Then there was the War. 

 

Ryan's pad began to vibrate and ring. He slid his finger against the Holo-screen to pick up the call. “Oh, hey, Brent.” Brent Bennett’s face appeared in the middle of the Holo-screen, stitched in between the blue holo-light. “What’s up?”

 

“Yo, where are you at? The Mayor’s been waiting for you guys for the past hour!”

 

“What?” Ryan and Shane said in unison.

 

“We didn’t know that,” Ryan said. “It was supposed to be at 3 o’clock.”

 

“It is 3 o’clock!”

 

“Shitfuckshitshitshit--” They both scrambled to get their stuff together and the half-alien turned on the Pod so it can hover to the Mayor’s office.

 

***

 

The Mayor’s office is big, it’s the biggest building in the city. It stand tall and high and mighty in the middle of the city, looking over it. Eugene Lee Yang, the third Lee Yang that has been in the office. He is the third generation, ready to have his children to take over. If he has any children. 

 

The Mayor fixes his hair in front of a mirror that his assistant was holding, Kornfield, according to his nametag. The Mayor was an attractive man with large hair and square nose that he highlights with makeup. And a bit of envy gathers in Ryan’s throat when he saw the gold pin on his breast pocket. It was one of the last pieces of gold in the universe. A staple in Earth culture and wealth. Ryan’s grandmother on his dad’s side once has a gold rosary that she took to her burning chamber, taking it to her death. 

 

“You ready?” Shane poked him in the arm. Ryan turned to look up at him and nodded before grabbing his microphone and sitting across to the Mayor. 

 

From behind the camera, Shane held up three fingers, then two, then one. They were on the air. Live.

 

“Welcome to another broadcasting of The Buzz News, I am your host, Ryan Bergara and I am here with the Mayor of Los Angeles, City of Stars, Eugene Lee Yang,” he smiled and spoke into the camera. “As most of you know, today marks the One Thousandth Anniversary of the founding of the city.” 

 

Mayor Lee Yang smiled at the camera and said, “You're right, Ryan. I have had the pleasure to be in office during this celebration of our beloved city.” 

 

“And you're the third generation to be in office, aren't you, Mr. Mayor?” Ryan says, getting into his reporter/host voice. 

 

Nodding, Lee Yang smiled. “Yes, I am. I am very proud of my family's involvement involved with the government. My father was mayor and his father before him.” 

 

“Do you think that it's going to a long running family tradition to be involved with the city's government?” 

 

Lee Yang's darted to his assistant for a second before having a stiff smile towards the camera. “I might be the last Lee Yang to be in office. I don't want children.” 

 

In all honesty, that was a shock. The fact that he was breaking a long line of family members in office and not wanting to have kids, and saying that _live_ is rather courageous.

 

Ryan smiled in full honesty. “I see. I wish you the best of luck. Let's continue about the Parade that's going to be all around the city.” 

 

“Yes, it will show most of Earth's history and how our city was founded.”

 

When Ryan opened his mouth to add something, they were interrupted by a loud crashing sound from the window, glass shattering as something solid flopped into the room. People moved away and the Mayor's bodyguards pulled him away and escorted him out of the room. When the comotion calmed down, Ryan looked to see what it was. 

 

It was piece of stray metal with a note attached. He slowly picked it up and read out: 

 

> _ “Who are humans who are not humans and aliens that are not aliens? The answer is: Cross-Stars.”  _

 

Many people gasped at the word, and Shane flinched hard at the word. It was a slur. It means human-alien hybrids. Memories of being called that made anger boil in his throat and tear wet his eyes. It was too close to home.

 

Shane made a signal for Ryan to say goodbye at the people watching. His face went blank before saying, “I'm sorry but we have been experiencing some technical difficulties. We'll be right back.” Shane cut the camera off and sighed. 

 

“What the fuck?”

 

***

 

People were talking about the whole thing. About how it was an attack against the government, an attack on the city, an attack in human-aliens. It was rather insulting too, because human-aliens have both traits but usually show mostly human traits to fit in. 

 

Shane was like that, he had black eyes as a child, the same as his mother's, and some blue hues that were from his alien half all over his body. The largest hue that hasn't gone away was on his back and shoulders. 

 

He remembers washing that part so much, with the hope that it will go away. But in never did. Not like his eyes or tribal markings. That hue will never go away. 

 

“I can't fucking believe it! It's the 31st Century! What are we? Barbarians? This is bullshit, fucking bullshit. They are not getting away with this, they can't.” Ryan has been ranting angrily for the last two hours under his breath, mad and might punch a wall any minute now. “I'm making sure that they get their ads thrown in jail. It's a slur. A fucking slur! You can't just--” 

 

“Ryan, you said it in national television. Live.”

 

“Because I didn't read the whole thing and just read it out loud. I know, I'm sorry.” He then stopped, his whole face twisting into something hurt. “I'm sorry I said that,” he said more quietly, softer and sadder. He meant it.

 

Shane shook his head and waved his hand in dismissal. “It's fine. I really don't care much about. I hate the word, yeah, but it's not a big deal. You act like I've never heard it before.” 

 

They were back in the Pod, sitting in the shared area that was the two bunk beds they share. Ryan was sitting in the small desk they have in there while Shane was laying in the bottom bunk.

 

The half-human looked over to look at his friend and saw a hurt expression on his face. It wasn't hurt like he was the one hurt but hurt as in he had witness something that hurt someone else but also him in the process. And that someone was Shane. 

 

“I have never asked to see your--” 

 

“We've been over this: I don't really care if you see my alien parts,” Shane said, sitting up a bit. “You've seen my baby pictures, that's how they look.” 

 

The full-human shook his head. “Yeah but I mean adult you.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

There was an awkward silence between the two before Shane standing up and lifting up his shirt. “Uh-what! No no no no!” Ryan said, embarrassed and looking away. “You don't have to--”

 

“I want to.” 

 

The full-human looked up from his hands to see his best friend, tall and lanky miles of white skin. It went on and on until his left shoulder, his skin slowly fading into a blue color that crawled up to his back. Then, he saw tribal marks that appeared on his arms, lines and symbols that mean different things in their language. Then it was the eyes. Darkness filled his eyes, the same way a demon would but less evil and more… space. In a certain angle, you can almost see galaxies in those eyes. 

 

“You're still weird looking.”

 

“You're too kind, little guy.” 


	12. DAY 12-- ANDROID/ROBOT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS I'M LATE AGAIN

The box was large, so large that they both had to pick it up with most of their strength. And when they mean pick up, one had to pull and one had to push it into the Pod. They were able to do it, just shedding sweat and no blood (which was good).

 

“So, what is it?”

 

“It's a box.” 

 

Ryan blinked slowly and looked at his half-alien friend. “No shit, Sherlock. I'm saying what's in the box.” 

 

“Oh! Sherlock Holmes and a _/Se7e_ n reference in the same sentence! You should be proud of yourself, Ryan.”

 

“Shut up, Shane.” They stared at the box. It was big, almost around Ryan's height, and it was heavy but there was only one thing inside. “What do you think it is?” 

 

Shane looked at it and said, “Maybe we should open it.” He took a step forward towards the box.

 

“What if its a bomb?” panicked the human.

 

“Who the fuck would send us a bomb?” 

 

The human shrugged. “I'm just saying, and if it's a bomb, I'm running.” 

 

Shane rolled his eyes as he takes the note that was stapled to the front of the box. He opens it and reads: 

 

> _ As an apology for that horrendous event you had to experience, please take this as a token of my apology in the name of the city -- Mayor Eugene Lee Yang _

 

“So it's not a bomb?” Ryan asks, standing next to him and looking at the note. 

 

“Unless the Mayor sent one to us. Which I doubt but still, so let's open it.” Shane threw the note aside and picked up some scissors and cut the tape that connected the pieces of cardstock. He opened the box and packing peanuts fell out to reveal-- 

 

“He sent us an Android?” Ryan asked, pointing at the robot in the box. It wasn't the latest model but it was still very popular and useful. It stood in the center of the box, head down with its chin against its chest. Many robots have been mimicked human forms, and this one was one of those examples. It was a grey metal color with no scratch in sight. 

 

The half-human hummed, looking at the Android. “It sure seems like it. Let's turn it on.” He moved the box out of the way alongside the packing peanuts to touch the button on the back of the robot's neck. 

 

There was a buzzing sound coming from the robot, whirring up. After a long moment of that sound, the robot slowly raised its head from its chest to look straight ahead. Slowly, its eyes opened to reveal digital eyes shining a light blue. 

 

“It works?” Ryan asks, genuinely surprised as he takes a step forward at the robot. It blinked and cocked its head to one side. 

 

“It seems like it,” the half-alien said as he picks up the manual from the floor. “This is model 10-21-12-9-5. It's the third generation of the new models. So its kinda new.” 

 

The Android blinked again. Slowly. It was rather creepy to Ryan, the fact that it looks so human. “Does it speak?” 

 

_”I do,”_ the Android buzzed.

 

Ryan jumped a bit back, startled by its voice. It was rather soft and sounded like what a computer in the olden days would sound like. 

 

The Android blinked again, a click happening after it. _”I am sorry for startling you, it was not my intent.”_

 

Shane laughed as he crossed his arms over chest. “Don't worry, he's scared of his own shadow.” 

 

“Shut up, Shane.” 

 

The Android cocked its head again. _”You are human,”_ it said, looking at Ryan but then at Shane. _“You are only half-human.”_

 

The human looked at the robot in confusion, “How do you know?” 

 

_”I scanned both of you when I was activated, it's part of my system to know the things and living forces around me.”_ The Android spoke as it looked around, scanning the room around it.

 

“Strange.” 

 

***

 

For a machine, the Android shows a lot of traits that would be in human. It asks questions, watches things with interest, and seems to be curious. It seemed to be almost… child-like. 

 

One time, the day after opening the box, Ryan was messing with the camera, trying to fix a messed up wire it that made the lenses zoom in and out without reason and in random. He was home alone at the time, forgetting the robot in the box. 

 

He didn't notice the Android powering on on its own and making its way to Ryan, looking at the camera in curiosity. _”What's wrong with this?”_ it had asked.

 

Ryan jumped a bit, forgetting the fact that there a was an android in the Pod. It had been a long time since he has had an Android or any technology that moves around him, the last time that was when he was a teenager. “Please don't sneak up on me like that, I almost dropped the camera.” 

 

_”My apologies”_ it says but continues to look at the messed up camera. _”But what's wrong with it?”_

 

The human sighs, “The lenses won't work correctly.” 

 

There was a light click from the robot, indicating a blink. _”Can I see?_ ” it asked, hands open to receive the broken camera. 

 

Ryan stared at the robot and then down at the camera before handing it over. He watched the robot open up the camera and how its fingers danced against the wires inside before pulling it away and handing the camera to the human. _”Check again, see if it works.”_

 

The human turned on the camera and saw how the lenses stop twitching randomly. “It works!” be cheered as he pointed the camera at the Android. “Thank you!” 

 

The robot stood there, head tilted to one side, trying to understand what that emotion was. 


	13. DAY 13--  UFO SIGHTING

The phone was one of the latest models. Of course it was, what do you expect from Goldsworth. He probably has a personal phone that's encrusted with jewels and another phone with a case made out of gold. Tinsley can almost smell the blood money in the house. He wonders how much all of this house costs. Including the furniture, the clothes in Goldsworth and Sophia's closet, and any small things around the house-- it might be enough to put a couple of kids through college. 

 

When Tinsley had ran to his room, he locked the door and stared at the phone in his hands. He could call the police right now, he could have Goldsworth arrested and end all his reign of terror. But something inside of him, something small in his head told him “not yet”. The rest of his brain was telling him to not waste time and end this whole thing, but his Detective Brain was telling him something else. To be patient, to have this time to observe and study and learn what the murderer is and why he does it and how he does it. 

 

Tinsley made a face to no one, disgusted in himself. Why would he think of that? It's gross and blasphemy to just observe someone like they were a species from another planet. That Tinsley could just make the call but he's having second thoughts about it was so… wrong. 

 

But there was something. Something about Goldsworth that made him so fascinating. He was a new criminal mind that mixes the old with the new. He is the new generation of criminals. A new threat, a new mind, he was the new. 

 

Tinsley shoved the phone under his chicken-tongue pillow and walked out of his room.

 

***

 

“Do you believe in aliens?” 

 

He had to blink to process the question. He was standing in the kitchen, making Goldsworth's coffee. Tinsley had started to fall into the habit of knowing when and what the murderer would ask. At 9 p.m, he would wake up and would yell for him to make him a coffee. Three sugars and two creams. It was 8:50, he would be call for his coffee any minute now. But he never expected to have Sophia out if her room this early. 

 

She usually is out of her room by noon for lunch while the whole morning she does God-knows-what. He does suspect that she practices piano, due to the sounds coming from her room. But that's his only guess. 

 

Yet he didn't expect to have her up this early, to come downstairs and ask him that question. But he also didn't expect to be kidnapped by a murderer so he had stopped being surprised at life. 

 

“I'm sorry-- what?” Tinsley asked, confused and frankly a bit lost. 

 

Sophia sat down across from him in the one of the stools. “I asked you if you believe in aliens. Do you?” 

 

Tinsley took the spoon from the mug and put it aside. “May I ask why you are asking me this?” 

 

The child-doll nodded, “You may.” Tinsley made a face internally. She was just like Goldsworth, a smart ass, and by the look on her face, she's aware of it, even if it's just a bit. Her mouth twitched just a bit in a smile. 

 

“Why are you asking me this?” he said, wanting to say in sarcastic monotone. 

 

“I think is saw a UFO.” 

 

He stared at her, expecting a joking smile or a childish look that exposes her joke. But he face was honest, truthful. Nothing but the truth. “Maybe it was a plane?” he offers, not really wanting to disagree with her with the fear that Goldsworth might come in and slap him for disagreeing with his little lap dog. 

 

She shrugs, “I didn't move like a plane. It did in the beginning but then just… vanished.” 

 

“Vanished?” Tinsley didn't know if he was acting or not. But he was interested in the story she was telling. It didn't feel that much like listening to a toddler talk about random things, but this toddler seemed to have the vocabulary of a Junior in Honor Classes in a University. 

 

Sophia nods, honest to God honesty. “I know it's strange an all but I swear to God--” she made the Sign of The Cross and kissed her fingers then the rosary around her neck -- “that I cannot make this up.” 

 

Tinsley stared at her, not sure what to do or say. She looks and sounds innocent but is dressed up with a dress that was bought with blood money. It was scary to see someone so pure and nice dress up in a nice dress and a bow on the top of her head when the money that was used to buy that was the end of someone's life. He could almost imagine the light blue empire waist long sleeve shirt she was wearing covered in blood. 

 

“Tinsley!” 

 

“Fuck!” the detective cussed, picking up the coffee mug and running up stairs, almost tripping and spilling the coffee on the carpet. He manages to catch himself and then sprinting down the hall to Goldsworth's room. 

 

Slowly and carefully, he knocks on the white door. He almost drops the coffee when the door swings open to reveal Ricky in a bathrobe and bed hair. “You're late.” 

 

Tinsley checks the clock on the wall and added mentally “yeah by two minutes, and your clock is ahead, you psycho” but didn't say anything as he walked into his room and put the coffee on the study desk before heading towards the door to leave when Ricky stopped him by grabbing his arm. 

 

All of the air was knocked out of him as he was slammed against the closed door. Tinsley's arms were slammed by his sides against the door by Goldsworth, when he tried to push back, the murderer only pinned him down harder. “Where is it?” Ricky hisses through his teeth. “I know you have it, you piece of shit. So where is it?” 

 

With his heart in his throat Tinsley only could manage a small “what?” sound. 

 

Ricky diggs his nails into his arms. “Where's my phone? I know you took it, I know you have it. So where is it?” 

 

All of the blood rushed to his throat, a pleasure in his chest and stomach made him shake in fear. “I don't have it!” he denied as an instinct. “I swear to God I don't have it!” Tinsley was sure that he might cry. 

 

“Liar!” Ricky growled as he punched him in the stomach, making Tinsley slide down across the door and onto the floor. Then he wrapped his hands around his throat, having a strong grip but not enough to make him stop breathing. “Where is it or I'll kill you right now. I swear to God I will.” 

 

Now Tinsley was crying again. This was how he was going to die, with a murderer looking at him like he was just one of his preys. “I… I don't have it…” he could hardly make out the sentence.

 

He felt Ricky's eyes on him, watching him like a hawk, trying to see if he would break, but Tinsley was too high on fight or flight to break. So Goldsworth let go of him, he kicked Tinsley in his stomach before walking away into the bathroom, leaving the detective on the floor like a worm in the sun. 

 

***

 

Apparently, Goldsworth was going to a party. A nice one too. One that had him wear a nicer suit and tie. And Sophia seemed to be dragged along too. Goldsworth making her wear a nice blue dress with details in the collar and having her hair curled nicely, falling against her shoulders. 

 

But he was somewhere else at the moment, leaving Tinsley and the doll-child alone in the living room. He wasn't allowed to sit down in the living room, even how soft and inviting the couch looked. But Sophia sure was. Of course she was. She was the master's pet. The accessory. The doll. 

 

And she had to look nice too. Her putting on lipstick with a small hand mirror that she had pulled out of her small purse. 

 

Tinsley stared at her, feeling sorry like he always did for her and himself. He wondered if she ever wanted to leave, if she had tried to escape through the window, if she had the idea of leaving this house before having it forced out of her by Ricky. He wonders that about her. 

 

Maybe they can both escape and run away to put the murderer away behind bars. 

 

Maybe. 

 

“Did you see any other UFOs anymore?” he asks, genuinely interested in her answer. 

 

She stops and looks up from the mirror. “No, I haven't. But I know what I saw though. I swore upon God on it.” 

 

That made Tinsley smile a bit. “I know, Miss.” He remembered going to church as a child with his mother and brother, he remembers most of the prayers, he remembers the confessions he had to the priests. He remembers the smell of candles and books and plastic plants. He remembers the world. He remembers his life before this.

 

And now he's suddenly sad about that. 

 

“No need to be sad, Mr. Tinsley. You're alright here,” she comforts him. 

 

He stared at his shoes. “Don't you ever want to leave this place?” 

 

She shakes her head. “There's no need to though. I'm perfectly fine here.” 

 

“But,” he starts, “doesn't it bother you that you're his lap dog? His pet? His accessory? A doll for him to flaunt?” 

 

She shakes her head again. “No.” 

 

Suddenly, he's mad at her. Mad that she's so blind to the situation she's in. Mad that she could literally leave any moment but doesn't. Mad because she seems to /enjoy/ it. Then he's mad-- no, furious at Goldsworth and his brainwashing and everything he has done to run not only run his life but hers. 

 

“One day he's going to grow tired of you and kill you,” he spats at her. “Like he's going to kill me when he's tired of me too.” 

 

“He will never do anything to hurt me.” That sounded so practiced and planned. Like that what was he told her to say over and over again to believe it. 

 

“He will.” 

 

The sound of dress shoes clicking made its way towards their direction, alongside angry muttering from Goldsworth. “I'm about to kill him, I'm about to kill him dead!” he roared at no one as he fixed his sleeves. “Going behind my back and lying to me and telling me that I was wrong when I know damn well that I'm right. Asshole. I'll kill tomorrow when I have the time.” He continued until he saw Tinsley and began to stroll over there.

 

He thought maybe he was going to pick up Sophia and tell her that they were ready to go but he walk right past her to walk towards Tinsley to grab him by the front of the shirt and pull him down his height. “So, you ready to confess, you little shit?” 

 

He took in a deep breath in. “No.” Which earned him a slap across his face.

 

“Try again.” 

 

“No,” he said again. Another slap. And another, and another, and another, and another. It escalated until Tinsley felt his face bruise red. 

 

“Please stop,” Sophia asked politely.

 

Ricky dismissed her with a small wave of hand and then continue to slap Tinsley over and over again. 

 

She tried again, this time more pleading. “Mr. Goldsworth, sir, please stop.” 

 

More slapping. Tinsley was crying with tears of pain. And his tears made it hurt more, which caused more tears and so on and the cycle continues until Sophia, seeming irritated by the violence, tugs in Goldsworth's sleeve like a child would do but instead-- 

 

A slap was heard but it wasn't on Tinsley's face. He opens his eyes and sees Sophia holding her cheek and Goldsworth staring in utter shock. 

 

He had just slapped her. Not only slap her but _backhanded_ her. 

 

There was a look of actual shock on her face that slowly turned into one of hurt that slowly lead to tears gathering in her eyes. 

 

Goldsworth let go of Tinsley, the detective stumbling back a bit, and rushed over to his doll. “Oh, Child I--” when he tried to pull her into a hug but she steps back, actually looking scared of him. “I--” 

 

Sophia ran past the murderer to tackle Tinsley into a hug, clinging onto him, shaking like a leave in a hurricane. Tinsley honestly felt sorry for her, petting her hair in comfort. He could feel Goldsworth staring at him, eyes burning into him like fire on paper. 

 

He glared at him but he could honestly feel all his sadness. Ricky Goldsworth felt _sad_ , looked _sad_. The man that kills for a living, enjoying his work in the process, looks _sad_ because he accidently hit his doll.

 

Tinsley realized that that claiming to see a UFO than seeing Goldsworth cry. 

 


	14. DAY 14-- FRENSO NIGHTCRAWLERS

“Why the fuck are we doing this?” 

 

“Because your messy ass can't control yourself when doing a fucking job, Night,” Legs scolds his partner, picking up the arm that dangled out of the sheet and pushing it back in. He stared at the body in disgust. 

 

Night scoffs, cracking his knuckles by pressing them against the car door and leaning most of his body weight. “I mean, why can't we just get someone else to do it?” 

 

“Because Jen got on _you_ because it's going to take the whole team a whole weekend to clean the blood off that wall!” Legs slammed the car trunk door closed, harder than necessary. 

 

Night's face soured at his partner's reaction. He stomped to the passenger seat and open the door to throw himself in the seat before closing the door with the same strength as Legs. 

 

“Fucker,” Legs cussed, kicking the car's tire before stomping to the driver's seat. He lit a cigarette to Night's dismay, seeing how he wanted to cuss him out because of the cigarette. 

 

“Asshole,” Night muttered, fully intended for him.

 

“Bitch,” Legs hissed, turning on the ignition. 

 

“Pussy.” 

 

“Bastard.” 

 

“Hey, watch it, Legs,” warned Night, staring at the cigarette and having the urge to snatch it away from his mouth and throw it out the window. It was stinking up the car, making him gag. “And put that thing out.” 

 

“No, fuck you.” 

 

The drive was long and quite. Neither made a sound if not they were going to stop the car and step outside to fight. When they hit a pothole, they heard the body jump in the trunk, making Night's jaw clench even harder. 

 

Night was those type of people that when he gets mad, he will be a hurricane of punches and screams. It's not just the anger of the situation he is right now but the small amounts of anger he had gathered from a period of time and when he a situation gathers that his reaction has to be anger, it just becomes a bomb. 

 

“You need to scream don't you?” Legs asked, not mad. He was never mad. Just annoyed at Night's behavior. But he knows how he is, understanding the way Night is. 

 

Night nodded, feeling all the anger gather in his throat, burning it like swallowing hot water. All of his body felt hot and his leg was bouncing up and down like a mad man. He didn't know what made it worse: the anxiety or the anger. 

 

After a long while, they were entering a large area of woods. A familiar place where they have always gotten rid of “work” like now. Rubble cracked and crunched against the tires of the car. 

 

Legs sighs out a puff of smoke through his nose, hearing Night's small sound of disgust from the back of his throat. From the corner of his eye he saw Night's leg bouncing up and down in rapid speed. He was basically shaking with energy. 

 

Then Legs stopped the car right next to a river bank and a large valley of no trees and just soft grass. 

 

Legs opened the door but Night was already at the trunk of the car, he opened the trunk and proceeds to ignore the dead body just to grab the baseball bat. He runs to the closest tree and-- 

 

Night screams in anger, swinging the bat at the tree trunk, bark flying every time the bat the tree. He was fuming, face red with anger, hands and arms going sore from whiplash of swinging with all your strength but something solid stopping your force. 

 

Sighing, Legs stares at the fit before he face palms at his partner. God, he hates it when he gets like that. It's almost as embarrassing as picking a fight with a random person in a bar. He should know, too, he had witnessed Night do that. 

 

Frankly, Legs will never understand where all that anger comes from. Yeah, a shitty home life will do that to you but this much? Impossible. Someone so small can never have that much anger in them. It's impossible. There has to be more to just a missing dad and a mom too busy to care about her kids’ emotional needs and more on food on the table and lights in the house and clothes on their back. 

 

The taller man sighs at his partner's childish fit before turning on his heel towards the dead body to drag out of the trunk. 

 

Knowing Night-Night, he's going to take a while.

 

***

 

What he hates about getting his hands dirty is that Legs feels sticky afterwards. It isn't _his_ job to get rid of a body, that's why they have people in lower ranks. But it's the fact that even though this time he wasn't the one that killed the guy, he's still technically responsible for it. It wasn't like his snipper job where he just shoot and go and someone else takes away the body. 

 

Now he's doing someone else's job. 

 

Legs pushed the wrapped up body into the river, watching it sink down to the bottom before being dragged down the stream. And for some strange reason, because of that he felt like he needed a drink. He just pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth.

 

Still able to hear Night's angry pants and the bat hitting against the tree, he decided to go back and see how his tiny demon-friend is doing.

 

And to his not-so-surprise, Night was still hitting the tree. There was no remaining bark on the area that he was hitting, just the under skin of the tree. But that doesn't mean that Night was done, he was still hitting and hitting. Hitting the tree so hard that some splinters were falling out.

 

Now that was the last straw for Legs. He rolled up his sleeves, put the cigarette on the trunk of the car before making his way to Night and hooking his arms under his armpits to drag him away from the tree. 

 

“Wh-- No! I'm not done!” he tries to wiggle away but when he was forced to stop, he suddenly felt very tired, arms sore and hand aching with soon to be pressure marks. 

 

“Sit down, you motherfucker.” Legs pulled him to his seat and sat him down with a huff. “Stay there until you cool down.”

 

Night tries to get up but his friend pushes him down with a glare in his eyes, “Stay there or I'll throw you into the river.” 

 

“Fuck you,” he spat but stayed in the car seat. Night watched as Legs walked away back to the river to see the body being washed away. He sat with his legs out of the car with the car door open to see the high hills of soft grass going on for the horizon and even more. The orange sun was setting over the horizon while he calmed down. All of his face felt sour and his limbs were suddenly filled with sand. 

 

He worked himself out so hard that he didn't notice something moving over the hills. The things were tall and white with long legs that connected with their heads, which only had large hollow eyes that were the only thing in sight. 

 

When Night saw them, his stomach churned into knots so tight that it hurt. The things move with only barely bending knees, slowly and almost stiff yet fast paced. “Legs,” Night hissed. 

 

“What?” called back his friend, still looking at the river. 

 

“Come over here!” whispered yelled Night, scared just a tiny bit but mostly in a state of disbelief. 

 

Sighing and now irritated, the taller man turned around and walked to the car, cigarette in his hand. “What the fuck do you want now?” 

 

Immediately Night pointed at the direction of the creatures. “Look!” 

 

When Legs looked at the direction where his friend was pointing, he gasped and dropped the cigarette. His sad-looking eyes widen at the sight of the creatures. “What the fuck are those things?” 

 

“You're cousins!” 

 

“Shut the fuck up!” 

  
  



	15. DAY 15-- MOTHMAN

Bergara threw his suitcase hard in the back of the taxi, throwing a cuss at his friend when Madej pushed him in. “Hey!” 

 

“Then get into the taxi and I wouldn't have to push you in,” he says, clearly irritated, mouth twitching to bite with a comment that might end up with a couple of punches being thrown. 

 

Bergara squints at him but says nothing. It's too early in the morning to fight, _again_. “To where?” asked the taxi driver.

 

“The airport.” 

 

***

 

The airport was full to its brim, people walking around and talking to each other or on the phone. There was more sound than a fucking war. At least a war sleeps once on a while. “So where are we going?” Bergara asks, watching his tall friend take out some chips from a vending machine. 

 

“West Virginia,” replied Madej, popping the bag open and taking one before offering the bag to his friend. 

 

“That's such a random state,” he took a chip from the bag and popped it in his mouth and began to chew it. “Why not New York or Florida or Texas?”

 

“You said it yourself: It's random.” Madej sat down in one of the seats, Bergara following suit. “I did think of Texas but it's too close to here so Virginia sounds nice.” 

 

Stretching and yawning, Bergara rubbed his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He looked like a college student, still very young and ready to live life any minute. “What are we doing when we get there?”

 

“I don't know yet,” he says, checking his watch before taking it off and shoving it in his suitcase. “I'm making it up as I go.” Madej felt something on his shoulder and then looked down to see Bergara's head on his shoulder with his eyes closed and arms closed. 

 

Madej found himself smiling at him. He remembers when he was his age, ready to face the world with stars in his eyes and curiosity as a motivation. He wants to live his life like that again. But now, Madej is old. Not old like he'll-die-any-minute old, he's in his mid-30s but old that makes him clueless for certain things that Bergara probably knows. 

 

They sat there for a long time. It was already noon and their flight hasn't been called and he was slightly worried. He already bought the tickets and they have little to no money and that's for the hotel and supplies. None of this was planned. It just happened. It _just_ happened. As in, the morning. 

 

They heard on the news that there's was two suspects that were responsible for tampering with a crime scene. _They were the suspects._ And even if they didn't say their names, it doesn't mean that it's not possible to link it back to them of they find even one fingerprint from either of them, and since both of them have criminal records, well… you can only imagine. 

 

And honestly, if they ever get caught, Madej would lie in court just to get Bergara out of trouble. He would say that he kidnapped him and forced him into those situations even though it's Bergara who always is the first one at the scenes and if not, then he's dragging Madej in like a child dragging their parent into a toy story. 

 

_ ”Flight B14 towards West Virginia is ready to board." _

 

Madej smiled and sighed in relief. He tapped on his friend's shoulder, earning a whine. “Hey, come on. It's our flight, you can sleep on the plane.” 

 

Bergara didn't open his eyes but he was awake. “Fine, but I want your beanie.”

 

***

 

The plane was cold, not freezing. Just cold enough for a hoodie and a beanie. And that's what Bergara was doing. When he walked past a window and saw his reflection, he swore that he looked like his college student self. Which was less than ten years ago. 

 

His head hurts, he didn't sleep that well last night and then he had to wake up earlier than usual to just know that he and his best/only friend that they might get arrested for tampering a crime scene and-- 

 

“You better not have lice because I will strangle you,” Bergara says as he sits down in his seat as Madej stuffs their suitcases on the storage above them. 

 

He chuckled and sat down. “Relax, I only had them when I saw in pre-k. And you won't choke me.”

 

Bergara crosses his arms, warming up as much as he could. “Why not?”

 

The taller man smiled. “You won't be able to reach.” 

 

“I'll kick you in the shins then,” he huffed and crossed his arms after doing his seatbelt and leaning against his friend's shoulder. “Wake me up when he get there.” 

 

Madej hummed a response as he looked at the pamphlets in front of him. One was called _Mothman Fest_. He opened it and began to read it as the plane took off. 

 

***

 

Hours passed and Bergara was still knocked out. Poor thing. He sleeps probably only four hours a night and he wakes up with the _nerve_ to do exercise in the morning. Ugh, healthy people. 

 

Madej had also fallen asleep, putting his head on the top of Bergara's head. 

 

They both jolted awake when one of the flight attendants’ voice came through the overcome that they have arrived. Bergara's head hit Madej's chin and jaw, making it his teeth snap together. “Ah! Fuckin’ shit.” 

 

_ ”We have arrived to West Virginia. I hope you brought a coat, it's quite chilly outside. Thank you and have a wonderful day." _

 

“Madej?” he said, tired and sounding a bit sad.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I wanna go home.”

 

“So do I.” 

  
  


***

 

The town was small. Small enough for people to know each other and probably had a cup of coffee at least once in their life. Maybe even played each other at the park in their childhood. It had a homey feel to it, even the sky knew too, showing it with heavy clouds threatening to spill water heavily. They walked from the airport with their suitcases, Bergara yawning, making his tall friend even sleepier. “Stop yawning.” 

 

He yawns again. “I’m tired!”

 

“So am I!” he says. The weather was making them even more anxious yet tired. Being sad and anxious is a bad combination, especially in a day like this. “We’ll find a cheap motel and then sleep.”

 

Bergara leans against his arm and grumbles, “Fine.” He was still wearing the beanie and had his hood up, making his face look wider and his glasses making his eyes look smaller and tired. “And you’re treating me like a child.”

 

“You certainly act one though.” 

 

“I’m about to beat your ass.”

 

***

 

The motel was fairly small, seems to be a recurring theme in the town too. Small state, small town, small importance, small fame. And it was perfect for them. They might stand out for a while for being new but they will slowly lose their importance and fade in the background. So they can disappear to walk among the shadows and enjoy their hobby in secret. But it’s a small town, their doubt that there’s going to be a murder. Maybe they're going to stay and get a small job and earn money to go to the big city. Being a Crime-Scene-Hopper is hard when everyone knows each other.

 

They signed in. Fake names of course. “You guys are staying the weekend right?” the receptionist said, Otto, according to the name badge. 

 

“Ugh, no. Maybe a little bit… longer?” Bergara glanced over at his friend. “We're not sure yet.” 

 

The receptionist nodded. “My bad, we usually get people that only stay the weekend around this time.” 

 

“Why is that?” adoes Bergara.

 

“Well, it's Mothman Fest,” they said. “It's when business is booming.” 

 

“What's that?” asked Bergara, suddenly very curious about it. 

 

Madej then said, “I think I read about it on the plane. It's this whole festival based on an urban legend, right? The Mothman.” 

 

“Yeah,” says the receptionist. “It's the reason the whole town is famous. Anyways, two twin beds right?” 

 

They looked at each other for a second before Madej saying: “A king bed.” 

 

The receptionist blinked for a second before their mouth forming into an o-shape. “Oh okay, my bad.” They wrote down something and then handed it to Madej. “You guys have Room 517,” they said and then handed them the key. “Enjoy your stay.” 

 

Madej watched as his friend took the keys and began to walk, and he followed. He leaned over to whisper in his ear: “Are we going to tell them that we got one bed because it costs less money?”

 

The shorter shrugged and sheepishly opened the note. “It says here that we should avoid Room 530. There's some shitty people there.” 

 

“Can't be the worst that bumping into the Mothman though.”  

 

Bergara smiled for the first time since yesterday. 


	16. DAY 16-- CHUPACABRA

Being an art thief can be tiring, with all the waiting and scheming and planning. It can cause an pain in the ass. And a headache. But if you're like Banjo, it's both. He's a--

 

“Headass.” 

 

Banjo looked up from the many papers on his desks. His eyes slightly drooping down from tiredness, making him look even more like a sloth. He stared at Joshua with an odd look.

 

“What did you say?” he raised an eyebrow.

 

Joshua looked up from his phone for a second just to say: “Oh not you, Banjo. I was texting a friend.” 

 

Still reading the files, Banjo said: “What you need to be doing is sweeping, Joshua.” 

 

The teenager clicked something on his phone and put it in his back pocket. “My fault, it was something about my girlfriend,” he said as he swept around the carpet.

 

Banjo scribbled on the paper before signing what he needed to sign. “How is Julie by the way?” he asked with actual interest on the mind. He had grown fond of the kid, always asking how his day was and how everyone in his family is. Banjo is actually considering putting him in his will when he dies. 

 

Josh hums, not stopping his sweeping. “She's fine. She just doesn't have a phone at the moment. She broke it during softball practice.” 

 

He nods and continues to read all of the files. Banjo pulling the heist wasn't just for Ricky, he needed some money, that's why he asked him for money to pull the heist. Him giving Ricky the painting was like going to the store for groceries and coming out with a bouquet of roses alongside a gallon of milk. Besides Ricky, he has clients, and one of them wants to buy a painting. 

 

“How's your boyfriend?” Josh says, leaning against the broom and with a smug look. Jerk.

 

Banjo's face turned bright pink with embarrassment. All of his blood when to his ears, making them beet red. “He… He's not my boyfriend,” he was able to stutter out. Shit, he could have said that without stuttering his teeth out. 

 

“The blood going to your eat a say otherwise,” mocked Josh. 

 

“Get back to work, Joshua.” 

 

The teenager saluted. “Aye-Aye, Sir!” 

 

***

 

The only thing that he hates about being an art thief is that it's a slow business. It's mostly wait and wait and wait. And to most people with stressful jobs it sounds fine, but Banjo thinks it's a nightmare. He wants something to do. He wants adrenaline he wants adventure he wants to have fun. That's why even though he plans everything for his people to do, he still joins them. Even though most bosses wouldn't like to be caught, Banjo still takes the risks because he _wants_ to. Well, not really. If he gets caught he won't be able to see Ricky again; but he likes the adrenaline that he feels when he snaps the alarm system off, when he walks through the museum or gallery with the feeling of being alone, he likes his job.

 

But right now, he's waiting in his office, looking something like a 20s black-and-white mystery film where a woman in a tight dress and a fur coat comes in and bats her eyelashes at the detective so she can be safe and get to the bottom of her rich old husband. But Banjo isn't a detective. He's just a crook. But he is waiting for someone.

 

There was a knock on the door before it was opened by that woman in a tight dress and a fur coat. But this wasn't _just a woman._ No, she was far more than that. She was a beautiful woman that will grind you into sand under her heels. She was the woman that will kiss you and will ruin your life. She was a drug, a snake, a spider, a monster, she was _the Devil._

 

And the Devil wears _Coco Chanel N°5_ and red lipstick. The Devil has brown eyes that are swallowed by darkness when you stare too long. The Devil has a name, and her name is-- 

 

“Francesca,” Banjo said, standing up and fixing his tie. “How do you do?” He walks over to her, taking her coat the moment she dropped it for him to catch it. She smiled through the cigarette in her mouth.

 

“Benjamin! Darlin’, how do _you_ do?” she says, fixing her right velvet black dress. She was very beautiful, Banjo can admit that even though he never was attracted to women. And with that dress, she can kill. 

 

And she has. 

 

He hangs her coat on the coat hanger and pulls the chair for her to sit down in it. “All is well. All is well,” he wipes his hands against the front of his trousers as he walks across from her behind his desk and sits down. “What about you?” 

 

Francesca blows her smoke, the smoke curling in the air like ink in water, slowly weaving and twisting into her name. “I'm fine, darling. Busy as always but you get it. Business business business!” She waves her hands in her with the cigarette, smoke being a pen in the air. 

 

Banjo nods and swallows dry. He knows what her “business” is, he knows it too well. Ricky knows too; because they work in the same career. But God, Ricky was intoxicatingly dangerous that it swallows you whole, like being in a room set in fire and the smoke is surrounding you that all you can do is sink down in it. “I have the painting if you wanna see it now.” 

 

She smiles at him, white teeth contrasting against black skin. “Of course.” 

 

He stands up and she follows him out the room and into the room next door. That's where they kept all of the stolen items in. The room was cold so the paintings and the statues won't grow mold on or the pain will melt. Banjo picks up one of the paintings from the wall and pulled up the sheet to reveal _”God Is A Woman”._

 

It was a beautiful painting of a naked woman surrounded by a pink and blue sky as she sits on the clouds. God was crying, tears running down Her face and neck as She stares at you with beautiful brown eyes. 

 

Francesca smiled brightly at the painting. “It's beautiful! How much you want for it?” 

 

“$2,000,000,” answered Banjo. 

 

Francesca took out her checkbook and scribbled on it before handing the check to Banjo. “You'll deliver it to my house, right? I'm going to be out of town tomorrow but someone will be there to take it in.” 

 

Shit.

 

***

 

Francesca lives on the other side of the city. Meaning that he has to stay the night in a hotel, which is the last thing he wants. He wants to take a shower and go to bed and call Ricky, but business is business. 

 

“I don't get why _I_ have to go,” Josh says, fixing his hair in the rear view mirror, running his hands through his curly black hair before dragging his fingertips over his eyebrows.

 

Banjo messed with his phone. “Because if I die then your Speedy Gonzales self can get help and find my body.” 

 

“That's racist,” joke Josh, looking away from the mirror to look at Banjo. “But true. Good thing my last name _is_ Gonzales.” 

 

Rolling his eyes, Banjo checks the address one last time before driving off, listening to the GPS's voice. “Is Julie okay with you coming with me? I know you guys have date night tonight.” 

 

The teenager shrugs. “I mean, yeah. I told her it was for work so she didn't care. Her mom dragged her to a party anyways.” Josh then smiles, dimples appearing on his left cheek. “How's Ricky?” 

 

Banjo's heart leaped and did a backfill and a somersault and a spin in that order. “I don't know. I haven't talked to him in a while.” 

 

_”Enamorado”_ Josh says. 

 

The art thief raises an eyebrow. “I don't know what you just said but it sounded rude.” 

 

Josh chuckled. “It means ‘'in love”. You're in love with him aren't you?” 

 

Banjo didn't answer and turned on the radio instead. 

 

“No!” John groans. “You put that white people music.” He sighs and covers his ears at Banjo's terrible singing. 

 

***

 

When they were done with the painting thing, they flopped onto their hotel room beds. Joshua sighing in relief and pleasure. “I need sleep,” he yawns into the pillows. 

 

Taking off his shoes and coat, Banjo sighs as he stretches his back. “Why did she have to live so far away?” 

 

“Rich people be like that,” Josh's muffled voice comes from his bed as he gets under the covers, only able to see the nest of black curly hair over the blankets. 

 

Banjo stretches one last time before following Josh and getting under his own covers. The bedsheets were cool while the blanket was warming up. He was half way asleep when Josh's voice woke him up from his soon-to-be-slumber. 

 

“I wanna marry Julie,” he said, barely above a whisper. 

 

Banjo grumbled a bit before saying, “Then marry her. If you love her that much then give her a promise ring.”

 

Josh didn't answer for a while. “Do you wanna marry Ricky?” he broke the temporary silence with that. 

 

His heart dropped at the question. “... I don't know. I don't think Ricky is marriage material though.” 

 

“When people fall in love, is it to want them at the moment or to want them forever? Why do we want people that we can never have? Do we want them because we know we can't have them or because we want them to know that you can't be theirs?” 

 

Silence.

 

“Go to sleep, Josh.” 

 

Silence again, until: “He's the _Chupacabra_ , Mister. Isn't he?” 

 

They fell asleep before Banjo could answer. 

  
  
  



	17. DAY 17-- WENDIGO

_ The Shadow stared at him, its eyes were just messy circles of white against its darkness. From he was standing, he saw something that were like white sticks surrounding it. But they were oddly shaped. It took him a moment to realise that they weren't sticks. _

 

_ Bones.  _

 

_ His stomach churned when he looked up to see the Shadow gone from where it was before. Then, something behind him growls, making his insides shake. He was breathing shallow breaths, his heart beating hard like a hammer against cloth. He doesn't want to turn around, his head has alarms going off to run but the ground below him had swallows his feet. But somehow he was able to turn around to be face-to-face with the Shadow.  _

 

_ Horns framed its head, eyes were just messy white circles and a hundred times more terrifying up close. He feels something sour in his mouth; fear. Slowly, the Shadow raised its claws close to his face, feeling the black long nails against his cheek, caressing him like he was a fragile thing. Then, his face was in the palm of its hand, snapping his neck. _

 

That's when he woke up.

 

He was covered in cold sweat, the sheets bulked around him, sticking to his skin. His heart was still beating against his skin like he has just ran a marathon and he can feel the sour flavour in his throat like a ball. 

 

Ryan sat up from the uncomfortable hotel bed and rubbed his face. This was the third night he has had nightmares of the Shadow. Always waking up sticky and feeling dirty, feeling like he has committed the most despicable of sins. But it isn't his fault. 

 

He turned to look at his friend, snoring in the bed, long legs and arms sprawled all over the bed, tangled in the sheets and blanket. Ryan smiles a bit at him before checking the clock on the wall. 

 

3:47 a.m. 

 

He needs sleep, his head hurts. Maybe he can fall asleep without the Shadow haunting him. Ryan rubbed the cheek where the Shadow that caressed, somehow feeling his fingers like it was the claw. 

  
  
  


_ Blood dripped from his lips, it was pouring out of him like a river as it fell on his lap. The blood made his tongue slick to the roof of his mouth and he felt it on his teeth. _

 

_ He knew it wasn't his own blood. It was someone else's. It was shown by how sticky and cold his hands felt. It wasn't his blood. _

 

7:32 a.m is when he woke up, cottonmouth mimicking the way the blood felt in his mouth like in the dream. He pulled the covers up over his head and tensed his whole body before making a sound of annoyance and then getting up from the bed. 

 

“Wake up,” he says to his friend, shaking him awake. 

 

Shane groans and waves his hand to shoo him away. Ryan sighs before shaking him awake again. “Wake up before I push you out of bed.” 

 

“You wouldn't,” grumbles Shane. 

 

Ryan grabbed the sheets and pulled them away and as Shane tried to cling onto the sheets, he fell out of bed with a thud. “What the fuck?” he groans as he rubs his lower back. 

 

“Told you so.” 

  
  
  


The forest was big and dense, all of the pine trees were covered in snow. Their boots made the snow crunch underneath them every step they took. Ryan's fingers and nose felt numb already and they haven't even been out for an hour. His hand shakes to keep the camera up in a level that makes it able to see. “Why… why we come when it was snowing?” his teeth clicking, shivering. 

 

“Because it makes it more creepy,” Shane's breath was visible as he spoke. “You wanna satisfy our viewers don't you?”

 

Ryan took another step forward, still shaking with cold. “Y-Yeah but not with me dying of hypothermia.” He looked up to see the sky turning into a bundle of grey clouds, swirling intensely as the darkness came through. It might rain or snow, or both. Ryan shivered more, the gloves not helping keeping his hands warm. 

 

Leaves and branches snapped alongside the crunching of the snow as they walk deeper and deeper into the forest. They were in Colorado to do a video about a supposed haunted burial ground. Many people have claimed to see full body appreciations of Natives killed on the land. Many claim to have heard screams of agony. While others have claimed to feel watched from the shadows of the trees like a hunter at its prey. 

 

They stopped at a clearing that was surrounded by mostly dead bushes and trees. “You wanna go first?” Shane asks, pointing his own camera at Ryan.

 

“Fuck no,” shakes Ryan. 

 

His friend rolls his eyes, “Just do it. Be there for, like, five minutes. Nothing is going to happen to you.” 

 

Ryan swallow dry and cold, breathing through his nose to see his white breath in front of him. “Fine,” he says, walking to the edge of the clearing. “But when the five minutes are up I'm leaving.” 

 

“Have fun!” yelled his friend as he walks into the clearing, being left alone. 

 

The clearing was almost a perfect circle, surrounded by the trees he had emerged from. He looks up to see the shy, feeling the cold wind slap his face sharply as it also makes the trees bend to the will of its power. He hugged himself with his free arm, pushing his coat as tight as he can onto his body. God, he misses the Californian sun. 

 

He took in a deep breath of cold air before pointing the camera on several directions, standing completely still in the center of the clearing. “Don't freak out don't freak out don't freak out don't die today Ryan don't die today,” he whispers under his breath with his eyes closed. 

 

Then, his heart stopped when there was rustling in the trees besides him. “Shane?” he whispered-yelled, hoping that it's his friend trying to mess with him. “Shane? Is that you?” More rustling. “If… If you're trying to fuck with me you're an asshole!” Even more rustling. Now he was getting scared. 

 

Ryan swore that he was going to faint when he heard a low rumbling behind him. His heart stopped for a full minute before beating like crazy, telling him to run. He couldn't. _Just like in the dream._

 

He was beginning to sweat in his coat, the cold around him choking him. His grip on the camera tensed, everything was shaking, he could tell. 

 

_”Ryan?”_ a voice came from behind him.

 

It was Shane's voice.

 

A wave of relief  made his shoulders less tense and his heart calm down just a bit. “Shane?” he stuttered, seeing his breath. 

 

_”Ryan, where are you?”_ he asked, but his voice had moved around from behind him. It surrounded him. It came from every direction. _”Come to my voice if you can hear me.”_

 

Ryan sighed in relief and took a step forward when he stopped. Everything inside stopped him from moving. His body reacting first than his brain to realize that the voice that he heard was not Shane's. It was his voice but something felt… off. It echoed on it's own and there was some grumbling behind the voice. Like a growl. 

 

_”Ryan! Come here!”_ the voice said again. That was definitely not Shane's voice. He wouldn't yell at him in such an angry tone. He wouldn't be like that. 

 

The camera fell on the ground, a muted thud in the snow. Ryan took a step back and looked around when he heard another growl. It surrounded him and he felt like he was going to cry. He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. Was he going insane? 

 

Another sound was heard behind him and Ryan, feeling like he might accept death any minute now, turned around and his knees almost gave out. Shane stood there, no camera in sight and he had his head down, chin against his chest. 

 

“Shane?” he whispered as he took a step forward towards him. Ryan hugged himself before extending his hands toward him, wanting a hug after going through that scare. 

 

He froze when he saw what was behind him. It was… him. But dead. The camera only inches away from his hands, still on indicating by the little red light. Blood dirtied the snow around Shane's body, shiny like rubies. 

 

The sound of something growling pulled his eyes away from the body of his best friend to look at-- 

 

It looked like Shane. But when it looked up, it had the Shadow's messy white eyes where those familiar eyes once where. Ryan looked down to see black claws against its jeans and when he looked up, he saw those horns framing his friend's head, growing out of his temples. 

 

The last thing that was heard in that forest was the scream that echoed from the little ghost/monster-hunter. 


	18. DAY 18-- NESSI

Wet mud squished underneath their boots every step they took. Their noses and cheeks were pink from the sharp cold air around them, stinging them like needles in the air every time a breeze past through them.    
  
Scout's breath was visible through the scarf that was tight around her head, covering her mouth. Ryan had to force it around her head before stepping out the door, saying that ' you'll get sick' even though he wasn't wearing his scarf like that. "So are we actually going to stay here for the night?" she asks, white air coming through the fabric.    
  
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Well, not here in general but around the lake in a drier place."    
  
Loch Ness Lake was one of the spots that Scout was most skeptical about. It's a lake, she had reasoned with herself, it's not an ocean, you can see what's in the water for the small square miles its length is. Maybe that's why she thought going to another country was a waste of time. But whatever, she didn't care that much to stay home. She rather liked adventure, even if it might turn out to be a hoax. Whatever, she rolled her eyes.    
  
Shane was able to lean down to get a rock from the mud and looked at it. Scout smiling, knowing what he was going to do. He then threw it as far as he could into the water, ripples still visible from where she was standing.    
  
"Hey, Nessi!" he yelled. "That's a wake up call for you to come after us, you snake-y wimp."    
  
"Oh my fucking God," Ryan whispered, slightly scared at the thought of Nessi coming to visit them in their tent during the night.    
  
Scout snickered before leaning down herself to pick up a rock. "You throw like a nerd. Let me do it." She got into a familiar position, the rock close to her chest before throwing it like the pitcher she was/is. It made it farther than Shane's by a considering amount of length before hitting the water.    
  
"Show off," the taller said.    
  
She smiled and shrugged, "I was a pitcher for two years, I didn't practice for hours just to _not_ show it off."    
  
"I'm still better than you in basketball," Ryan said, pointing the camera at her, wanting to record her reaction.    
  
The only reaction he got was her picking up a rather big and thick stick, another rock and her throwing the rock up in the air and swinging the stick like a bat to hit it. The sound that the rock and stick did echoed for a while but ended with the sound of the rock hitting the water with a  _splosh._

***

 

The ground was cold, he felt it through the thin layer of cloth that was the floor of the tent. It was hard and cold, like a rock. At least wasn’t as wet as it was this morning. But it was still uncomfortable. “I can’t believe we came to fuckin’ Scotland,” Scout said, nails digging into the fabric to poke at the cold ground underneath them. 

 

The tent was large enough for the three of them could fit and have some room to move around, which was a miracle to her. Shane messed his phone, “Language.” He mentally scoffs, memories of cursing around his parent by accidentally cursing and then smacking the back of his head with a newspaper and then using that infamous parental line.

 

“English.”

 

Shane sighed, tired. “Ryan, come get your child.”

 

“She’s not my child,” he said through the toothbrush. 

 

“Sure looks like you though.” 

 

“Fuck off.”

 

***

 

The only light at the moment was the lantern that was outside of the tent, it barely was visible through the thick fabric that made up the walls of the tent. Which is weird, he thought as he stared at the ceiling with his arms behind his head. Ryan could hear Shane's soft snore besides him. He didn't know what time it was but he knew it was late, maybe 2 a.m. or something around that time. 

 

He sat up when he heard rustling in the tent and looked at where the sound came from to see Scout, still wide awake, looking at something in her lap. It wasn't her phone or anything that admits a light. 

 

It was a photograph. 

 

“Hey,” he whispers, slowly and quietly moving next to her. 

 

Scout didn't look at him, not moving her eyes from the photograph. He moved to see it closer and felt his heart drop just a bit. It was a picture of her mom and her dad with her sitting in the middle. He saw her mom in her all the time, she has her eyes and smile. But her dad… he doesn't know that much. Not even his face. It was scribbled out angrily with a black pen courtesy of her mother. 

 

Maybe she has his nose, maybe she has his sense of humour, maybe she has many parts of him that she wants to forget. 

 

***

 

Scout was still awake after Ryan had fallen asleep. She was staring at the photograph so hard that she might as well burned holes into it. The photo was old, the edges of it bent so much that they have turned white and soft. 

 

She was four in the picture, she was able to tell because of the date in the back scribbled by pen. A different pen from the one that covered her dad's face. Scout only has faint memories of his face, mostly some of them repressed deep into some place in her brain that she has locked away. She remembers his eyes though, very clearly. Sad and educated eyes that matched his profession in life. 

 

But that was a lifetime ago. 

 

It was _her_ lifetime ago. 

 

There was a sound coming from outside of the tent before there was a shadow moving across the tent. She froze, staring at the shadow moving quietly and she jumped a bit when she heard a growl that echoed in the hollow space in her chest. 

 

She looked back to see them still asleep before crawling out of the tent, only freezing when she heard Ryan shift in his sleep. She counted to ten before grabbing the scar and wrapping it around her head over her mouth and slowly moved out of the tent. Scout froze when she saw the shadow up close but in a certain shape. 

 

A snake-shaped head that was connected to a long neck that disappeared into the waters of the Loch Ness. Scout stared at the monster with more awe than fear. Childhood curiosity made he take a step forward towards the monster, surprised to see the monster move back, almost as if it was scared of her. 

 

Scout slowly moved her hand up in front of her, offering it to the monster like you would to a cat to grow familiar to your smell. The monster moved its head back before slowly moving its head forward, shy, scared-- timid. 

 

It smelled her hand, Scout feeling the air against her hand that the monster lets out through its nostrils the size of her fist. She smiled when the monster pressed its head against her hand, feeling the hard snake-like scales. They were smooth, slightly slimy and cold. The monster purred (purred? Is that possible?) and blinked, eyelids going vertical to show neon green eyes, iris as thin as the crescent moon in the sky right now. 

 

“You're beautiful,” Scout says, meaning it so much that it made her heart squeeze with affection. 

 

The monster purred against before pulling away harshly, head up in the air looking around like an owl would to scan the area. Then, it slithered back into the water quietly as it could possible could while being fast at the same time. 

 

It slithered into the water with a soft _sploosh_. Leaving Scout alone, breathing through the scarf around her mouth with the photograph in her hand. 


	19. DAY 19-- BIGFOOT

Freddy threw punches in the air in her car, anger made her hands his by how hard she was straining them. She made an angry sound in the back of her throat, sounding like a lion ready to tear something apart. 

 

After what felt like a full hour of angrily fuming, she sighed, heart still beating in her throat. She could have ran a mile right there and now. Freddy would have, ignoring the flashbacks of running track during high school but it was raining hard enough to confuse it as hail. 

 

She tapped her nails against the steering wheel, the soft _thump_ s were somehow soothing. Freddy stared at the hotel that she was in the parking lot of. _The Bigfoot Motel,_ she scoffed as she read the name. Freddy is a skeptic to the core, she might have believe some ghost stories or alien abductions or cryptid creature sightings because Holly told them with such a shiny passion that she would follow her to ends of the earth, even if Holly had a period of her life in which she believe the world was flat. 

 

Taking one last deep breath of air and pulling the hood of her coat over her head and ran as fast as she could with the rain pouring down on her. Her heavy suitcase weighing her down just a bit before opening the motel glass door. 

 

Inside, it was warmer than outside. Fog appeared in Freddy's glasses due to temperature change. Thanks science, she thought as she walked away from the entrance and deeper into the hotel. The motel gave off a homey atmosphere, wooden walls and floors that dark green curtains covered the windows with quilt-like fabric that seemed to be handmade. On the walls, there was newspapers snippets framed up the walls that pretty much matched the name of the motel. Newspaper articles of Bigfoots (Bigfeet? What the fuck is plural for Bigfoot?) sightings in the area. 

 

Freddy stared at them as she walked into the lobby. She could almost imagine how Holly would have been if she was here. She would have been jumping up and down like a child in a toy store. Those images fused together with memories of the past. Freddy could almost see Holly walking through this hall and just stare at it with such a fascination that it made her sick. 

 

It made her sick because she wanted to see that. 

 

“Ma'am?” someone said.

 

Freddy turned to look who called her and her heart dropped at the sight of a young woman behind the desk, the receptionist, and how similar she looked to Holly. 

 

The receptionist had the same wirely hair and round glasses Holly would wear once in a while. The only different thing was the receptionist's green eyes while Holly had eyes that were as tree bark. Freddy's eyes travelled across the receptionist's face, marvelled by how similar she looked.

 

She looked even better than the clone. 

 

“I… I'm sorry,” stuttered Freddy as she made it towards the desk. “Can… can I get a room please?” She looked at her name tag and found herself slightly disappointed at the sight of the name “Daniela”. 

 

The receptionist nodded and flashed her a polite smile that made Freddy's inside twist in heat. “Of course. How many nights would it be?” 

 

Freddy's eyes dropped to Daniela's cleavage, feeling her mouth go dry and face sour and heat up with lust. “I don't know yet.” 

 

***

 

The bar in the motel was pretty much the same, just with more people. Freddy sat alone with her drink, sitting on a barstool as she watched the people around her. Holly had always said that she was always people watching, even if she didn't mean it sometimes. But who can blame her? People are so fascinating to Freddy. She loves to watch people's faces when they talk to others or when they stare at their phone or during a phone call; she likes to see and half-memorize their faces; she likes to see the clothing they're wearing; she likes _people_. 

 

She was never like Holly, who thought of aliens and ghosts and demons with such a driven passion but she doesn't need fantasy to feel like she was soaring up in the clouds.

 

She has people. 

 

But she's alone.

 

Freddy looks up to see two men and a teenage girl walk into the bar (yes, she's aware that it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke) (that Holly would probably tell) and this is when she starts to People Watch them.

 

One of the men was tall, skinny and white with a strange looking face that consisted of sad looking eyes and a strange nose. He hasn't shaved in a while, she could tell, but he made it look decent. Freddy noticed how he holds himself: proud and relaxed with himself. The man was accustomed to the cold, shown by how very few layers he wore yet they were the right type to wear for this type of weather.

 

The second man was shorted with black hair and shiny eyes, mixed (with what? She's not sure. Asian is the only idea she got at the moment). He was shivering, less accustomed to the cold weather and was very overdressed, showing by his sweater, thick jacket, and coat and scarf alongside gloves. The man seemed very nervous yet happy at the moment, despite his shivering. He stared around him with the same fascination Holly would when talking about the supernatural. 

 

And the teenager, now she was difficult. She didn't even seem real. The girl seemed like those people that appear to be easy to read and when you try to figure her out and when you think you have, she turns around to laugh just to say that you are wrong. The girl is a trickster. Clever to not show how she is. But she forgot to cover up some holes in her walls. The girl wore a scarf around her mouth, against her choice too but wasn't forced to. She has a strange yet very strong relationship with the two men which was interesting because she shows it very clearly as she follows them to sit down in out of the tables in the far corner away from Freddy. 

 

The teenager was an enigma, a mystery-- a cryptic of some sorts but still being human. 

 

Freddy has always wanted to solve a mystery (Holly doesn't count, even if she was a mystery for a while but Freddy didn't solve it) and this child was one of them. 

 

The teenager took off the scarf from around her mouth to reveal the other half over her face. Now all Freddy thought she knew was debunked. She looked similar to both the men, yet there was no family relations in between. Right? 

 

But still, Freddy is going to solve this mystery (needing a distraction that aren't revolved around sex) and judging by the suitcases they had on them, she has a chance to solve a mystery in _The Bigfoot Motel._


	20. DAY 20-- JERSEY DEVIL

“I feel like _The Blair Witch Project_ ,” Scout says, pointing the camera at Ryan's face, zooming in and out of his face every few seconds. 

 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Stop playing with the camera, you're going to waste the battery before we even get into the woods.” He closed the backpack. 

 

“I have batteries in my pocket for a reason,” she said, shutting the camera off and putting it on the hotel bed before pulling the hoodie on. 

 

“Put on your scarf.” 

 

“Ughhhhh…” 

 

***

 

The infamous scarf that everyone speaks of and Scout hates (okay, more like dislike strongly but somehow loves it) was an ugly wool multi colored scarf that Ryan threw at her when they went to their first location that isn't as hot as the Californian sun. And at first it didn't seem so bad, even if the wool was kinda itchy and ugly, but then every time they went someplace cold or even remotely cool, Ryan would make her wear the scarf. And when it's not him and she manages to not put on the scarf, Shane makes her wear a hat that she didn't think could have been uglier than the scarf. 

 

Tonight, it's both. 

 

And she wants to cry in embarrassment when they walk past a shop window and sees her reflection, wearing the ugliest hat and a semi-ugly scarf. And it didn't help that a group of girls walk past them. Yup, Scout was going to have a heart attack. 

 

It wasn't even that cold in New Jersey. Just 50°F (or 10°C for everyone else in the world). There was no sun at the moment, even if it was early yet you could see white sunlight from begin the clouds. 

 

“You two are nerds for stopping here,” Ryan says, watching a grown-ass man and the possibly the most mature teenager run to the front of _Old Victorian Cape May_ with nerd-ish joy. 

 

“And there's two most stops before we go to the woods,” Shane says, reading the poster on one of the walls of the houses that says the history of it. “Oh! A president lived here?” 

 

“Which one?” 

 

Ryan groaned, “Ugh… nerds!” 

 

***

 

Shane was right, they did stop to another two stops. The first one was nice, he can admit that. But he didn't have fun because what's fun about reading about a house that some Duke came in and thought it was “marvelous” or whatever. Maybe it was his past frat boy-ness that makes him like that but he was never a history puff, unlike Shane and Scout who breath reading and learning about history. 

 

The second spot was _Morey’s Pier,_ which he enjoyed very much. It was basically Disneyland but with a vintage style. Almost like _Freak show_ from _American Horror Story._ There was a carousel and old-timey carnival music playing and the smell of popcorn filled the humid air. Even the sun peaked a bit for it to be considered noon. 

 

Shane offered him his bag of popcorn and he took a handful, slowly eating it out of the palm of his hand. It was very domestic, he was very aware of that. He wondered if some people of the crowd around them think that they were a family in a family outing. He wonders if people think that he and the tall man next to him with a teenager next to them are a family. 

 

He wonders that too sometimes. 

 

Scout found herself in front of one of those games that you have to throw a dart a board full of balloons to pop. She was ready to throw a dart when Shane took it out of her hand, snickering at her reaction. “I'll do it. I got the best chance of actually winning something.” 

 

Scout's face went pink with annoyance. “Yeah, your long arms help.” 

 

He snickered again before throwing the dart to a blue balloon, but missed. Shane tried again by picking up another dart and missing again when trying to pop a green balloon. On his last dart, he missed the red balloon. Losing all together. 

 

Ryan and Scout try to hold in a snort, watching Shane pout. “I'll do it since I _actually_ know how to throw,” she offered. 

 

Scout picked up another dart and aims it at the blue balloon that he previously tried to--

 

POP! 

 

She picked up the other one and aimed it at the green balloon with the hope it's going to--

 

POP!

 

“If I get this you owe,” Scout says, scratching through the ugly hat. Shane made a face of _you're not going to make it._ She grinned, wide and almost mischievous and then--

 

POP! 

 

“Ugh…” Shane says, slightly smiling when they handed him the stuff bear with a little red hat and a small blue coat that he handed to Ryan. 

 

The person behind the counter smiled. “Your kid has one Hell of an arm by the way,” they said as they handed Scout another stuffed animal. A black cat with green eyes. 

 

All of their faces shifted awkwardly at the sentence that you could almost hear the “ugh…” without them opening their mouths. 

 

***

 

It rained right after they left the pier. It was raining hard enough for them to hide underneath the broken porch roof of abandoned building. Now it was cold, cold enough for Scout to not feel her fingers and her nose to be wet. Never had she been so thankful for the sweater and hoodie we was wearing and that damn hat and scarf. 

 

“Is the camera okay?” she asked, breathing into her hands and rubbing it to warm them up. 

 

Ryan pulled it from his coat to check on the camera. Even though it was a cheap one, it was still very important for them. All of them. There was so many hours, days, weeks of footage on there that they protect it like a diamond necklace. “Yeah,” he said slightly out of breath. 

 

Cold air stings their lungs as rain came down in buckets. Shane looked down the alley they were next to just to see it empty. “If we run, we'll be able to make it if we run.” 

 

Then there was a flash of lightning that blinded them for a second before revealing someone down the alleyway, a shadow like figure that held a knife in hand and a body at the figure's feet. And the eyes, oh God the eyes. They were red enough for you to confuse for blood. 

 

The world stopped spinning when Ryan's eyes landed on the alleyway wall next to the figure, there he saw words, written in the poor person's blood. There was another flash of lightning and the figure was gone but the body still layer on the floor, slowly being surrounded by blood. 

 

Ryan stared at the wall, it said: 

 

_ The Devil Of New Jersey. _

 

And as the period of the sentence was a handprint of blood. 

 

The sound of someone's breath hitching made them both turn around to see Scout, eyes as wide as dinner plates as blood dripped from her nose onto the ugly wool scarf that fell on the ground, and somehow, she had blood on her hoodie and that ugly hat.


	21. DAY 21-- POLTERGEIST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> */*/*/* means flashback
> 
> Also, trigger warning for blatant colorism in the first three paragraphs.

White was never Ryan's color. It never suited his style. He remember when he was little he wore a white baseball hat before moving into another surbur with less people like him. His mom threw the baseball hat away, and little Ryan help hurt because /he actually loved that hat/. But his mom told him that he couldn't wear something so light. He asked why. His mother made a nervous face at the question, he has popped the bubble that surrounded the elephant in the room. 

 

His mother swallowed and told him something that he took around for the rest of his life (and just recently realize it was wrong for him to do so), she said: “Never wear something so light, let alone white. It makes your skin look darker.” 

 

And that got into Ryan's head, he threw away all of his extremely light clothing, only keeping a few that might be important. And through his childhood and teenage life he barely wore something light. Because the thought of being ugly was already there but the idea of being ugly because your skin was too dark bothered him until he went to college, where he learned that people around him also was taught that being dark meant you were ugly. Some have taken in to an extreme too, going as far as bleaching their skin or flat ironing their hair or wearing contacts to hide their dark eyes. 

 

People like him were taught to hate themselves. To erase who they are. To try again to be beautiful. 

 

That's why white was never his color, and the straight jacket that held him in place was the whitest white he has ever seen. There was a chain on the back of the straight jacket that was tied in the back of the chair he sat in. 

 

Ryan wasn't thinking right at the moment, drugs in his system making him dizzy and barely able to hold up his head. The chain was the only thing that kept him from crash into the table right in front of him. 

 

When the door opened, his head felt like it was full of sand when the light from outside hit his face. He heard footsteps slowly walking towards him and sitting at the chair across from him. 

 

He slowly picked up his head and saw a woman with a white coat and large glasses and curly hair in a messy bun. She was very beautiful yet she looked like a woman that would not hesitate to be a leader. And she seemed to be one at the moment, holding her head up high and shoulders wide and sharp eyes that were demanding.

 

Nothing like the person next to the doctor. It was a man with a black coat and a tie. A detective, something in Ryan deduced. 

 

“Are you feeling okay?” the doctor's voice was the opposite of her appearance, soft like a child's doctor. 

 

Ryan's head dropped to nod once. He felt the drugs weakened enough for him to move his body. He felt his arms folded across his chest because of the jacket and heard the chains jingle as he tried to move. “Why… Why am I here?” he slurred, mouth feeling hard and numb at the same time. Like he hasn't opened his mouth in a few days. 

 

The doctor cleared her throat and put the clipboard on the table alongside a pen. “What is the last thing you remember?” 

 

More white appeared in his head. Clouds and fuzzy things that he couldn't see through like fog in the early morning under a gray sky. He couldn't understand much of the situation but he knows that something is wrong.  “Uh… Shane… and a house… and a camera… I remember us filming and--” he couldn't process anything more let alone remember. “Where's Shane?” 

 

The detective stood next to the doctor. “Anything else?” he asked. 

 

“Where's Shane?” he slurred, demanding. 

 

The detective and the doctor shared a look for a second. “We'll tell you where he is if you tell us what you remember?”

 

And then something took a hold on him, it strangled his throat and made his tongue go flat as he head flooded with memories of what happened. 

 

“We were at a location,” he started, looking like the drugs had faded away. “It was for a show we're in, we go look for ghosts or any supernatural creatures in haunted locations. Shane is a skeptic; I'm a believer. He never believed in all that stuff.

 

“We went to _Stonemary House_ and we stayed the night and then…” And then he couldn't remember much; yet he does. A part of him was whispering him the answer but they were whispers in which he couldn't understand a word. Yet he was able to feel it and see it across his eyes, messy handwriting that looked so familiar that he could smell and taste it. 

 

“Then?” one of the people in front of him said. He couldn't tell who, his eyes were open but he couldn't see. He saw darkness and light at the same time. He felt heat and cold. He felt the past.

 

*/*/*

 

The house was in terrible shape when they got there. It smelled like dust and age and cloth that you push down in the bottom of your drawer. When they enter the house, they saw some dry leaves on the floor nearby the windows. 

 

It was cold, he remembers that very well. He was shivering and his hands were a tight numb grip around the shitty camera. “So this is where we're going to spend the night, big guy.” 

 

“Sounds lit,” Shane grinned. 

 

He snorted. “Noooo. You're too old and white to say that.” 

 

“You're never too old to follow your dreams,” Shane quotes no one and every high school poster ever with his eyes half closed and mouth pressed to create a thin smile to show off false cockiness. 

 

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “You are when you're you.” 

  
  
  
  


They walked around with the camera in the empty rooms, Ryan freezing once in a while when the floor boards whine under his foot or the sound of something scratching from inside of the walls (and arguing back when Shane says it's just rats) or the sound of glass banging against the frame (“It's the wind!” Shane complained when Ryan jumped.) and many other small things. 

 

“This is where the mother killed herself right?” Shane asks as they stop at the master bathroom, brown wooden door half open and spider webs occupying that small space. 

 

The story was the Stonemary Family that lived in this large house that Robert Stonemary built himself for his wife, Aurelia. Construction ended in 1925 and they moved in in 1927. By 1931 they had three children: Alice, Samuel, and Raphael. Slowly, the family fell apart because of Roberts affair with one of the maids, June Sanders. In a fit of rage, Aurelia took the shotgun and killed June. That housewife was sent to jail for three years until she was bailed out by her husband. And in the oncoming ten years, the family slowly became into misfortune. 

 

“Yeah,” Ryan said, watching his tall friend push the door open, the spider crawling away. Inside, the bathroom was covered in dirt and the bathtub was brown with years and years of filth. He could almost see Aurelia filling up the bath with water and sitting down in it in her nightgown just to put her wrist with her husbands shaving razor. 

 

Shane took the camera as he stepped inside, shoes squeaking when the rubber touched wet dirt. “Aurelia, you in here?” 

 

No sound was heard. 

 

Ryan's heart beating fast in his chest and his throat soured with nervousness. He loves his job, he truly does but the fact that he has to stay the night makes his blood run cold. 

 

Suddenly feels a hand on his ankle and Ryan jumps ten feet into the air and into the bathroom, the door closing behind him. He screamed, that he knew but Shane was giggling like crazy that his reaction. “What is it? A coach crawled by your foot?”

 

Ryan was too shaken up to be mad. “So… Something grabbed me!” 

 

The tall man waved his hand in dismissal. “It was probably the wind,” he says as he goes to open the door. He steps outside just to see the empty hallway. “See? There's no one there. So calm down.”

  
  
  
  


The next room was the kitchen, where June Sanders got shot and died on the spot. Ryan almost could see June's body jerk back when the bullets hit her chest and stomach. “It smells like cockroaches,” Shane said, pointing the camera at the body of a dead roach on the floor to zoom in. 

 

“Our viewers don't want to see a roach, Shane,” Ryan said, slightly angry and irritated. He felt it in his chest, feeling like that ant-crawling feeling that you get when your leg or arm falls asleep. 

 

Shane looked up and pointed the camera at Ryan, zooming it at his face. “... Here we see Ryan in his natural state of fear,” he said in a fake Australian accent. “His eyes got bigger and he had ran his hands through his hair twice as time today. Quite a fascinating creature.” 

 

Ryan angry pushed away the camera but before he could leave the kitchen, something stung him in his back. He winced and whimpered in pain as he reaches for his back. He lifts up his shirt and sees on a mirror three red lines across his lower back. “What the--”

 

The mirror shattered and Ryan sprinted to the door. 

  
  
  
  


Shane was the one that pulled him away from the door and basically threw him into his sleeping bag. “You'll be fine, just sleep,” he had said as the sun was setting and the moon was rising. 

 

And even though Ryan felt like he could sleep, he was knocked out like a light. 

 

And when he woke up, he felt his hands and chest cold and sticky. Then he fell back asleep in a dreamless dream. 

 

*/*/*/*

 

Now he was sitting in a straight jacket in front of a doctor and detective. Ryan looked up and saw their look of horror. Actual real horror. Like they witnessed someone confessing to kill someone in the most brutal way.

 

Like…

 

“Where's Shane?” he demanded, same ant anger in him. Now he was worried and scared. He needed to see his best friend. He needed to see Shane so he can tell him that he was going to okay. He needed Shane. 

 

Both the doctor and the detective were ready to leave when Ryan wiggles his way to try to get away from the chair holding him down. “Let me go! Let me see him!” he yelled, wanting to cry. “Where is he? Where is he? I want him!” Now he was crying, angry and scared and feeling cold. 

 

Then all of the energy was drained out if him when he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He twisted away but he felt the pain take course to calm him down. The last thing he saw was the white straight jacket he was wearing covered in familiar blood. 

 

Maybe red wasn't his color as much as white was. 


	22. DAY 22-- HAUNTED HOUSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A previous of poltergiest. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Sex, gore, suicide, and murder by a fire weapon.

The house was ugly thing. Old wooden walls rotting through years of rain and weather and sun. Some of the windows were broken, leaving it open for leaves and insects to crawl inside and make themselves a home besides all of the dust and dirt. Weeds crawled up the walls and across the porch, vines scratched the door, begging to come in to join the darkness. 

 

When Shane stepped on the steps of the house they whine, he laughs. “Oh God, this is old, don't you think?” he asked, looking at Ryan, who was right behind him, pulling himself away but still having to go into the house. 

 

“It's from the 20s, obviously,” he said putting on false confidence. 

 

Shane pushed the door open, squeaking with old pain like bones would pop and crack when someone of old age stands. Ryan wouldn't be surprised if this house was alive, like the one in _Monster House._ And the inside supported that comparison. 

 

Old wall paper that had fallen off had pooled on the floor. The house smelled like autumn and wood as they walked inside. There were spider webs in every corner that reached towards the door, begging to get out like the trees and the larger begged to be inside. They want a change a way away of their regular dead life against the dying house they fence around. 

 

Both of them stood in what was the living room. A large one too, the wallpaper that wasn't on the floor was yellowing with age and Ryan could barely make out the designs on it. They were vines, he realized as they walked further into the house. 

 

Then there was a feeling sinking in his stomach, one similar to fear and nervousness. Then one that felt like anger. He swallowed before he turned to see Shane pointing the camera at his face, zooming in and out while smiling. “What's the matter with you? You look like you've seen a ghost.” And to Shane apparently that was the funniest joke in the world and walked to another room to film some more while his short friend's face turned red with annoyance. 

 

It was the master bedroom, where Robert and Aurelia Stonemary slept. The wooden bed frame was still there but the mattress was long gone. There was a closet in the left corner that you could fit in a whole mattress in and call it a bedroom. 

 

They were walking into the closet and when Ryan walked past the abandoned bed frame, his stomach boiled with another emotion. It wasn't fear or anger or anything like that. It was _lust_. Some place in his head filled with memories that didn't belong to him. That “memory” included a man and a woman in the bed (which had a mattress) and them doing “adult things” (now he sounds like a mom explaining to her child what she and daddy were doing last night). Okay! They were fucking. It wasn't sex or “making love”, it was straight up fucking. There were sounds from the man and the woman that mixed with the sound of the mattresses springs whining and the sound of the bed frame banging on the wall. 

 

Ryan wasn't the man or the woman but he felt the lust and want and need radiating off of them. It was that type of fucking that has nails scratching across the back leaving red lines in their wake and teeth against skin ready to breath and draw blood. 

 

_ ”Tell me you love me,” the woman moaned. “Tell me that you love me, Robert!”  _

 

_ The man (Robert) growled and picked up his pace, hastily and wanting and chasing something so near. “I love you, baby. You're my little shooting star!”  _

 

_ Then there was the sound of the door slamming shut made Ryan-- _

 

“... Snap out of it!” Shane shook him lightly. 

 

Ryan gasped for air to enter his lungs. All of him unfreezed from whatever he was in. All of the blood rushed to his ear in embarrassment. Why would he be embarrassed of something he didn't do? “I'm fine!” he yelled in panic and fear and embarrassment, looking away. Flashbacks of trying not cry when he fell in front of all of the kids in the park hit him hard enough to make his face sour. He looked to see his friend standing in front of him with a slightly hurt face. 

 

“What?” Ryan asked, genuinely confused. 

 

Shane made a face of dismissal, which was rare for him. He tried to walk away from him but Ryan stopped him by grabbing his arm but Shane pulled away, suddenly mad. “What did I do?” asked Ryan. 

 

Again, Shane made a face of dismissal but still some anger in face. “You didn't have to fucking yell at me.” He pulled his arm away before exiting the room, stomping away like a child. 

 

***

 

Shane can't stay mad at Ryan, he couldn't if he tried. Okay, maybe he could but he wasn't going to have a fit in a “haunted” house because Ryan yelled at him. In fact, he didn't even know why he was that he yelled at him. Maybe it was because he was trying to help his snap out of the trance he was in, watching the bed frame like a teenager watching a fucking porno. That he was trying to help but he got a yell of irritation that made his stomach boil. 

 

Shane stomped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom that was connected to it, heating Ryan walk right behind him. He pointed the camera at the bathroom, taking a step inside to have a closer look, hearing his shoe squeak when he stepped on the tiles of the bathroom floor. “Aurelia, you in here?” he asked the air. 

 

No response. 

 

“I'm sorry,” Ryan blurted out. Shane turned to look at him. “About yelling at you. I was irritated.” 

 

Shane didn't answer and just smiled, accepting the apology he then turned to look at the bathroom. “Bye, you lousy wimp!” he yelled before stepping away, leaving Ryan behind as he walked into the kitchen.

 

He slowly walked into the bathroom, his shoes also squeaking every step he took as he looked into the bathtub and saw those memories again. 

 

_ The bathtub was running, the water slowly filling with hot water and having steam stick to the small bathroom window and mirror. A woman slowly took off her nightgown, revealing her naked body. She had a petite frame and fuzzy brown hair that framed her face like the clouds would surround the sun.  _

 

_ Her skin was white as those clouds with almost to trace of a hair in sight. The lines of her body were so beautiful and soft yet sharp that he could feel it on his tongue. The lines that he caught the most was the ones of her neck and collarbones. Sharp enough to cause harm while the rest of her was warm and soft.  _

 

_ The woman slowly steps into the bathtub, turning off the water and just sitting there, waiting for the water to turn warm. And when it did she slowly sank down into the water with her eyes closed. Ryan could almost feel himself in her position, being under water before and feeling the water consume him. _

 

_ She then screamed, bubbled erupting from her mouth and vibrating the surface of the water with pops and ripples. She screamed for so long and even though the water muffled it, he knew it was one of pain. Pain that was shown as the water slowly turned red with the blood that floated out of her wrists. _

 

This time he was the one that snapped himself out of it, suddenly feeling so… sad. Actually sad. A sadness in which made him shed tears of a pain that couldn't be spoken. A pain that goes on and on. He didn't know why he was sad, but it made a sob rip out of his throat in the most painful way. 

 

“Ryan?” someone said. It was Shane. “You okay?” 

 

Ryan wanted to actually answer but the tears wouldn't let him actually create a sentence that wasn't babbles and half form vowels. He then heard: “Oh, Ryan.” And then he was being hugged from the behind. “I'm sorry that I was mad. It okay. I forgive you.”

 

Now he could speak. “I… I'm sorry I don't… know why I'm crying.” Ryan cleaned his face with his hands, feeling that jittery vibrations inside of his chest and his jaw was shaking. God, he was crying like he would when he was a child. 

 

“Its okay,” Shane said as he pulled away. “It's okay. Come on. Let's kill some ghouls!” 

 

And Ryan smiled, still sad. 

 

***

 

The kitchen was in terrible shape. The island was half gone into the ground and there was many missing cabinets. There was thick layer of dust on the counters and table, so thick that it clumps from his fingers and lands back onto it with a plop. 

 

Ryan felt better from his crying session even though he didn't understand why he did it, it was still nice. His eyes hurt though. He walks around the decaying island to see all of the trash in the house. “The house would be much better if they actually worked on it,” he said, picking up a dead leaf on the floor and staring at it. 

 

“It would be,” Shane said from the hallway they came from. “But the style is very nice. I love it.”

 

Ryan smiled a bit at the leaf to replace the way he would smile at Shane. He looked up and his heart dropped when he saw a man sitting in a chair in the middle of the second living room that was across the kitchen.

 

It was dark for some strange reason even if the sun hasn't set just quite yet. He looked at Ryan with a dirty look and hard eyes that made him uncomfortable. There was a lightbulb over him and it swung across his face, barely touching his face. And Ryan felt himself wanting him.

 

_ Lust. _

 

_ That was Robert was. Lust and greed and money and power. Yes, he loves his wife but he lusts over others. _

 

The lightbulb was hypnotizing, making Ryan being drawn to him like a moth to a (well…) light. He slowly walked towards him. Wanting him. _I want you._

 

“Ryan?” Again, it was Shane. “Are you sure you're okay?”

 

Ryan didn't answer and looked back to see the man and the light bulb gone but that painful lust shot through him in the stomach like a shotgun.

 

The same way Aurelia killed June for lusting. 

 

***

 

Anger, sadness, lust. Those were things he felt in the house. But something in Ryan knew that something was missing. Like the cycle wasn't done yet and he needed one last thing, one last drop of water to make the cup spill over. And he knew what it was when he walked into the children's bedroom.

 

It was pain.

 

It stank like it too. It actually smelled of all of those things in order. The iron like taste of anger, the calming hurricane of sadness, and the pull of lust. And lastly: the sting of pain.

 

It happened at night when they fell asleep and Ryan slept only a few feet away from his best friend. He usually doesn't sleep in locations but exhausting taking him over and pulling him into the darkness of his sleep.

 

_ Blood dripped from the side of the children's face. The three of them were bleeding out, but Alice had it the worst. Her face wasn't recognizable. Her face was just messy and horrible lines of red blood oozing out of her face and down her neck and staining her chest. Nothing was able to be spotted, not her nose or eyes or chin. Just blood. _

 

_ Raphael has it the second worst. The line where the knife met his both eyes, popping them in the process, like smashing a hammer on a grape. That blood were the last tears he would able to shed.  _

 

_ And Samuel? Oh poor little Sammy. His eyes were wide open as he his jaw was cut from his face like a knife through cheese. He still had his upper teeth there, stained with blood but everything from his jaw was gone. And his eyes were wide open during the process too.  _

 

_ That was the pain. _

 

Ryan gasped for air, feeling his whole body cold. And that's when he realize that he was alive and well and covered in blood while Shane, his best friend, was next to him--

 

Dead. 

 


	23. DAY 23-- FULL BODY APPERATION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last of the Stonemary House mini series. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: violence, gore, suicide.

Green grass was his pillow under his head, he was sure that the grass was slowly climbing on his body and growing roots into his skin. He could from the outside of his closed eyes his body on the ground, the vegetation that surrounds him ready to make a place for itself on his body.

 

Grass on his arms and legs, wildflowers on his face, sweet grass on his chest. And he was okay with that, he was very okay with that. He didn't care what happened to him as long as he sleeps.

 

He did sleep. He slept like he hasn't in a millennial. He sleep like God slept on Her people when they had Her narrative wrong, abandoning Her people because they think She is a man. God will awake when Her people accept that She created them. But he accepts his sleep that he knows that if he doesn't wake he will be dead, he accepts the fact that his body will rot into the ground, he accepts everything that will happen to him because Shane _doesn't care._

 

If he awakes and he's still alive, then so be it. It was playing Russian Roulette but with only two possibilities that he was neutral to. 

 

All was calm. For a while. 

 

In the darkness of his sleep he saw a face. The face of a man who exhaled lust and want and need. The man has dirty blonde hair that matched with his beard, the man has soft blue eyes that made his heart either stop or start to beat too fast. The darkness in his sleep left Shane and he was standing under a lightbulb that only rained on him and the man. 

 

The man was shorter than him (everyone seemed to be) and wore old timey clothing. With a pale had that showed strength and money by the rings that were gold and white gold and silver and encrusted with jewels, with that hand, he pulled Shane down by the back of his neck and smashed their lips together.

 

It was just lust. No passion or love or softness of affection. It was just dirty lust and need. Teeth hitting each other and hot breaths mixing with jittery energy. Shane felt nervous half way into the kiss, maybe because he was kissing a stranger or because he hasn't kissed anyone in such a long time. Yet he _wants more._ It feels like he was a teenager and he just learned how to kiss and he wants more. _Moremoremoremore_. 

 

And he feels so greedy for it.

 

After a while of making out, the man pulled away and Shane screamed when he saw a decaying face replacing the once beautiful one that he was kissing only moments ago. He pushed himself away from the man, tripping on something invisible and falling back into an open grave. 

 

Dirt was poured on him as he tried to get out but weeds and plants erupted from the ground and pinned him back in. He was being buried alive.

 

_ Was even alive to begin with? _

 

He digs his hands into the dirt was suffocating him and slowly, slowly yet efficiently-- the corner of his eyes because dark and it flooded his vision like water filling a bathtub. 

  
  
  


A bathtub is where he sat. He was alone in the bathroom, sitting in the sink. Cold water reaches to his shoulders but it was comforting, cold making him a numb. Shane sank into the water, covering his face. Memories of being in the water park as a child and having the water stick to face with only bubbles escaping his face every time he blinked. Blinking under water was such a strange thing, he thought his random thoughts. Then, being stupid, he breathed in. 

 

His lungs burned when they filled with water, his body jerking when he tried to get up but he couldn't. Something pinned down his skinny wrists against the edge of the tub. Pinning him so hard that he felt blood drink and saw the red drip into the water, dancing inappropriately, seducing him into submission. 

 

With his last strength he opened his eyes and saw a woman, the person pinning him down. The water made it hard to see how the woman looked but he saw frizzy brown hair and sad brown eyes that showed how tired she was of doing this loop over and over again yet she had to-- it's all she had.

  
  
  


Pain gathered in face even before he woke up. He couldn't even wake up, his eyes couldn't open but he was crying through the missing eyes. He felt the pain sting and then go numb and then sting again until it was a cycle that he couldn't get used to. He couldn't feel his nose and he probably had swallowed some teeth. 

 

He felt his blood dripping down his neck and some sputter from his face. Again, he could see himself from the darkness. Shane wouldn't even recognize himself. His face was completely gone, just a pureé of blood and flesh. A brain being slapped on his face. 

 

The pain something he couldn't bare or you would understand. It was terrible. A pain that your try to fight away from but after a while, you realize that you are in fact suffering: the 5 stages of pain.

 

First it was denial: _this couldn't be happening to me! What have I done to deserve this?_ Second was anger: _That fucking bastard! I just need to find a way to get away from him and I'll kill him, I'll kill him dead!_ Third was bargaining: _”Please! I'm so sorry! Please let me go! I'll do anything!”_ Fourth was depression: _I deserve this. That's why I'm suffering. I don't deserve to live._ And finally five, acceptance: _I'm going to die in the most painful way possible. Having your face pushed into pieces._

 

Shane felt like his body was running out of blood. That's why he died-- again. 

  
  
  


The smell of breakfast welcomed him when he realized that he was in the kitchen. There was white flour on his pants and hands. He looked up to see a woman standing three arm length away from him. Shane didn't know how but he knew it was the woman that drowned him in the bathtub. She was so much more beautiful without the blurry waters protecting her identity. She was beautiful but intimidating with the shotgun in her hands that she was pointing at him. 

 

“I--” he tried to say, very confused on what was happening. 

 

“Whore!” the woman yelled and pulled the trigger. Before he knew it, Shane's organs were blown out with such a force that he fell back on the kitchen floor, his whole body twitching at the fact that he was bleeding out and half of his torso was blown into pieces. Why couldn't be his face so he would die quickly?

  
  
  


After that mini 7 Circles of Hell, Shane knew that this was the last circle of Hell. And he was right where he started: laying in the grass, inviting the wildlife into his body. But he wasn't alone in laying on the grass, he looked to see the man laying right next to him-- fucking cuddling him.

 

“I died didn't I?” Shane asked.

 

Robert Stonemary nodded, his tie laying on his stomach with the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. “Do you wanna know how?” he asked, a posh accent straight from a gangster movie (even if he wasn't a gangster). 

 

Shane nodded. Robert smiled and slowly sat up and got into his lap, straddling him with a smile that mimicked one of a college student ready to fuck. And Shane should know, he was a college student once. 

 

Robert leaned in to kiss him but he stopped right above his lips and slowly moved to his ear to whisper something that will haunt his afterlife: _”He loved you; and he ended you.”_

 

When he pulled away, instead of Robert sitting in his lap, it was Ryan, holding a knife and he was covered in blood. _His_ blood. And Ryan's eyes made Shane's last thoughts believe in ghosts; they were covered in a thick layer of grey, like the spider webs in every corner of the house.

 

And then-- 

 

He died. 


	24. DAY 24-- CURSES OBJECT

It was settled then, Tinsley thought, pacing around his trashy little room, I'm cursed! Yes, he admits that it's a silly thought but he was in a state of panic. It's been over three weeks and he's still alive in the house of a fucking psycho. Other would be glad to take another breath and another but Tinsley was more terrified than relieved because he _knows_. He knows what can happen to him if he stays another day or even another hour.

 

He was so stupid for not calling for backup the moment he had the phone in his hands. His curiosity and fascination towards psychos like Richard Goldsworth. It's like him being a psychologist falling in love with Michael Myers. 

 

That's why he's sure that he's cursed. But what would be the cause of his curse? What object is he carrying on him that is the reason why he has so much misfortune? Does he even have to have a physical object to have a cursed object? 

 

Is he the cursed object? 

 

***

 

There was some tension in the Goldsworth household after the whole “backhanding-incident”. The maids had scattered like mice when Ricky or Sophia walk by them, shutting up their talking and walking away as fast yet calmly as they could. 

 

Speaking of which, Sophia has become quite clingy towards Tinsley, not enough for it to be annoying but enough for him to notice. It started with her waking up earlier than Tinsley and waiting for him in the kitchen. She tried to make it look coincidental by having a book in front of her but she had been staring at the same page for the last twenty minutes. Tinsley knew she was staring at him with the corner of her eye, listening to him preparing for Goldsworth routine. 

 

After pretending to read _Hamlet_ , she looked up and without a word stood next to him, like a little kid watching their mom make dinner. 

 

And Tinsley was disgusted at himself for making that comparison. Yes, she was a child and yes she was scared of her only… whatever the Hell Goldsworth was for her. She needed someone to be the lap dog of. That's all she knows to do and to be. _To be or to not to be? That is the question._

 

***

 

Another occurrence of that is Tinsley standing in the living room, some feet away from Goldsworth yelling at the phone (he has gotten a new phone after he had gone through all of Tinsley stuff in his bedroom but found nothing because Tinsley hid it under his bathroom sink), Sophia walked in and instead of sitting on the couch closest to him she sat down where Tinsley was the closest. 

 

Ricky noticed this, his voice wavering at the sight of his lap dog sitting next to his man servant. He glared at Tinsley with cold, tiger eyes which made the poor little detective sweat. Was he even a detective anymore? He hasn't been involved with the police in such a long time that he hates himself for even missing it. _But who needs new little criminals when there's this giant one only sleeping upstairs._

  
  


Ricky has also been showering Sophia with gifts. It started with just a dress but then another and another until it escalated quickly into jewelry and money and then it raised into something that made Tinsley's heart jump into his mouth, he said: _”Do you wanna go outside with me?”_

 

It wasn't odd for them to go to a party or some event like that but it was never just for casual outings. And hearing Sophia dismiss their ticket out of here pained him, he even made a small noise in the back of his throat, causing Sophia to give him a sideways glance. 

 

After days and days of not having her attention, Goldsworth seemed tired and irritated. He would snap at the maids and punched the wall once after having a disagreement on the phone with a potential client. He almost slit Tinsley's throat with a kitchen knife but he was stopped when Sophia walked by, staring at him until Goldsworth dropped the knife. Then, she walked away. 

 

Not only was Goldsworth irritated but so was Tinsley, the tension drowned him like a swimming pool. He needed them to… make up? Jesus Christ, he sounds insane. 

 

***

 

It was the morning and Sophia was in the living room, embroidering something new and big while Tinsley made Goldsworth's coffee. He finished and walked up stairs and then, he saw something he never thought he would ever see-- Goldsworth crying. 

 

He looked terrible, to be frank. He looked almost cartoonishly tired and drunk, with stubble framing his face and messy hair making him look older. Tinsley almost couldn't recognize him. 

 

A cigarette dangled from Goldsworth's lips as he stared at something in front of him in his desk. Tinsley scurried to put the coffee on the table where he always put it but when he was going to pull his hand back, Goldsworth snapped and grabbed his wrist in an iron grip. 

 

Panic immediately flooded into Tinsley as he tried to move away but he couldn't, the man in front of him was too strong. Tinsley thought he was going to die (an uncommon thought around Goldsworth but still a fear none the less) but instead he witnessed a man who was guts, gore, and glamour cry tears that held years of pain. And Tinsley stared at him, not sure what to do. 

 

Then, he pulled out the handkerchief Sophia have given to him and handed it to the weeping man. He took it gladly and put his head in Tinsley's hand, crying into it like _he_ was the one that needed to give forgiveness. 

 

Yup, Tinsley is in fact cursed.


	25. DAY 25-- SHADOW PERSON

Okay, Freddy isn't really “stalking” them. She's just… investigating their life and see how they function and later tries to understand them without having a human contact of having a conversation. ( _”That sounds like stalking to me,”_ Holly whispered in her ear). Okay, there is a minimal, miniscule, tiny chance that she might be stalking this innocent family of ghost hunters. 

  
  


From her (*cough*) research, Freddy has discovered a few things from the small strange family. The tall man is a skeptic of the paranormal but does believe that there is a large hairy man in the woods somewhere. The shorter man was quite jumpy and scared easily when it comes to anything to do with the paranormal (the tall man's polar opposite). While the teenager, well, she's odd. She's the middle of the two men, mostly curious than scared of the paranormal yet claims to not believe in it that much (“I'll believe it when I see it, and then try to study it,” she has said once) but will _sprint_ at the mention of demons. In the opposite direction. 

 

Freddy snorted into her drink when she heard that and pretended to cough when she felt the tall man glance over at her. He noticed her constant watching, the tall man first noticed this when she followed the small family when they walked into their room and pretending to walk towards the elevator. 

 

She managed to convince the receptionist Daniela to move her room closer to the small family's, at first the receptionist denied it but after a night at her place, Daniela agreed with a red face when she stared at Freddy lick her fingers clean in the morning, making eye contact with her and making it sexual even if she liked sugar off of her fingers. It still worked though, having a room away from them. 

 

Three days into the “investigation”, Freddy heard the tall and short man talking rather loudly from the hall. It took Freddy awhile to realize that they were drunk. It was that type of silly drunk that came from cheap wine and beer in those early college days before slowly shifting in one of strong liquor. She misses those days of being drunk with her roommates and then waking up with a hungover that made all of them all not want to drink again-- but then next weekend comes and do it again and again until he reach the limit of almost being an alcoholic and then you stop. That what she did-- stop. 

 

She stopped herself from becoming an alcoholic at an early age, she was lucky, unlike her best friend in college. 

 

The men were talking and giggling and if Freddy looked out the door she would even see them clinging onto each other and whispering/shushing into each other’s ear. Whisper flirting would be their caption sound. They still whisper at each other, well, they whispered loud enough for her to able to hear them one room over. Freddy suddenly has the brilliantly stupid decision to grab her robe and step outside of her room to commit an act of human kindness. She hasn’t done in a while, ever since Holly died. 

 

Freddy looked at the digital clock on her nightstand, bright red letters flashing +2 A.M+ at her. Jesus Christ, she thinks as she unlocks her door, they got drunk enough to commit sins. Freddy steps outside and ties her robe. “Need help?” she asks, watching the two men lean against each other with drunken smiles plastered on their faces. 

 

The shorter man was the one that seemed the most affected by the alcohol, having a drunken smile that was wide and big enough to show his perfectly white teeth that seemed too big for his mouth. The shorter man struck Freddy as a clingy drunk (Holly was one), shown by wrapping both arms around the tall man’s skinny torso. While the tall man seemed like those drunks that seem sober until you see them smile and hear them speak. 

 

“We… We’re fine,” hiccuped the shorter man, later giggling into the taller man’s ugly hawaiian shirt. 

 

Then the tall man knocks on the door. “Scout! Open up!” 

 

Freddy blinks. ‘Scout?’ she asks herself. ‘So that’s the girl’s name?’ It was quite an amazing discovery, she had actually found calling the interesting family by their attributes beginning to be tiring. The tall man, the short man, the teenager. The thought they were fine at first but when she stays wide awake by curiosity, using that in her inner narrative exhausting. But the name Scout surprised her. Not because she thought that the teenager would be the last one to learn her name but that it was such a simple name for what seemed to be a rather extraordinary person. 

 

Or maybe the teenager was in fact just an ordinary person and Freddy in her mourning madness had written up in her head as a creature of some kind. A thing when she was just a human teenager that probably has played Spin The Bottle and watched a scary movie and has given a hickey. Maybe Freddy has overhyped her in her head like she was a writer that thinks that her new story is going to change the world. Maybe--

 

“Um, no!” yelled the teenager from inside the room.

 

Both the tall and short man look rather surprise by this answer. So was Freddy, to be frank. “What! Why? Scout, c’mon… help us…! _Pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeee_ …” slurred the shorter man, putting his hand on the door. 

 

“We’re your parents for God’s sake!” yelled the skinny white man. 

 

Then the door unlocked and the teenager poked her head out from inside of the room. She looked like she was actually asleep and was tried. She frowns, “You ain’t my Daddy or my Momma.” Freddy almost snickered at the accent she put, a fake Louisiana accent that she was far too familiar with. 

 

The tall man then pushed the door open wide enough for both him and the shorter man to walk past her. “It worked though,” he snickered with a smirk, dragging the drunken man into the room, leaving a pissed teenager outside the room. 

 

Freddy smiled when the teenager yelled: “Fight me, Pops!” before stomping back into the room with pink bunny rabbit slippers. ‘Scout’ suddenly became a rather appropriate name for her.

 

***

 

Paralyzed. 

 

That what she was. Paralyzed in her bed with the covers barely covering her body, leaving her cold and exposed and vulnerable to the dark creature in the corner in her room. It stared at her with no eyes. The Shadow just stood there, quite, waiting, prowling.

 

Freddy couldn’t close her eyes, she couldn’t move she could barely even breathe. Her heart jumped into her throat and slowly parachuted down back in her chest where it was when the Shadow moved, dancing against the wall and floor with cautious accuracy. Like a thief in the dark of the night ready to steal the most prized possession in the art museum. All she could do is see it come closer until in loomed over her. 

 

A hand erupted from the Shadow and ceresed her face, soft and familiar. Odd a first until she realized that the touch was soft in not a mocking tone but in one that showed actual care. Touching it so soft like she might break under the touch of black fingers and nails. Suddenly, the long dark hand turned into something familiar. Delicate fingers and less-long nails that only threatened to poke than to cut eyes out. Fingers that were familiar in every sense, feeling them in her hair at night, feeling them when she held hands with them at the park, feeling them in the deepests deepts at her core at night and pushing sounds out of her like pressing a button to make that sound over and over again to just please the owner of those fingers. 

 

Those fingers belonged to Holly.

 

Then, she blinked and all of the feeling in her body came back like an ocean wave crashing into her. When she blinked, the Shadow person was gone. Holly was gone. She was already gone.

 

***

 

It was someone knocking on her room’s door that woke her up. It was rapid knocking but it wasn’t the type that indicated something urgent, just someone impatient and most likely without manners. She opened the door and saw all of the family in front of her door. It was kinda cliche too, all they needed was a casserole to make up a perfect 1950’s tv show scene were she just moved to the neighborhood and the perfect family next door just stopped by to welcome her. 

 

They stood from the tallest to the shortest (the tall man standing on her left, then the shorter one on her right and the teenager right in the center). Scout was the one that knocked, Freddy somehow knew.

 

“Hi, we just stopped by to say--”   
  


“It was his fault that he woke up the whole hotel,” Scout says, interrupting the tall man. 

 

The shorter smiled, “Yeah, he’s a lightweight.”

 

The tall man looked mocked-offenced. “I am _not_ the lightweight. _You’re_ the one that clings on me like a fucking koala.”

 

The two men bickered among themselves while Scout sighed, covering her face with embarrassment. Then, she stuck out her hand for Freddy to take and shake. “Hi, people call me Scout.” 

 

Freddy smiles. “I’m Freddy. Freddy Harknell.” 

 

Scout, the teenager smiled, “Pleasure.” 


	26. DAY 26-- HAUNTED FOREST

After the death of the leader of the bad guy, the Authorities tried looking for the rest of the Rebels. They will never that far from their precious leader, drawn to him like a sheep waiting for their Shepard. Blood still remained on the ground, more spilling when they dragged the body away like a sack of potatoes. It was disgusting to see a body, a _person_ , being treated like a terrible thing.

 

_Maybe he was a terrible thing_ , the church behind him whispered, reaching and wrapping its hands around First Bergara wrist and it urges him to put his hands over his chest and pray to never become like the leader of the bad guys. Yet, he feels unholy eyes on the back of his neck and his first instinct was to run but then that twisted in one of--

 

The Authorities pushed the crowd away, First Bergara and his family being one of them. They walked back home, looking back to see the Church but Second Madej staring right at him.

 

***

 

On Monday, everything was calm like before. As if the ending of the Rebels’ leader wasn't dead. Well, the City really doesn't care that much, they know that the Rebels are a just people looking for attention and sooner and later they will grow tired of the lack of and die sooner or later. And that's what Bergara hopes when he walks into School. 

 

The older kids wake up earlier than the younger ones so it means that Bergara was going to walk alone. The wind was picking up, the sun was nowhere to be seen, tired and scared of the city it shines its light for. Sick of not able to be a proud source of life and depending it on something unseen and given to them unwillingly but forcefully like medicine to a child. Yet instead of helping, it poisons them. 

 

Ugh. He has to pray after thinking that. 

 

His gray coat whips up at the feeling of the wind, stinging his face as the sun still refuses to give life to his people. Through layers, he still felt cold. A sweater, a coat and scarf will never help in this weather. Bergara sometimes wishes for forever sun and warmth. 

 

Familiar unholy eyes stare him down, he turned around and saw… no one. Huh, maybe it was his paranoia. When he turned back around, he was tackled to the ground, falling into some bushes. His first instinct was to fight but when he saw whose face was it, he stopped. “Shane?” he asked, flabbergasted. 

 

Second Madej smiles. “Hey, wanna go on an adventure?” 

 

***

 

Tick.

 

Tick.

 

_Tick_.

 

Bergara slammed his head against his desk. History class has been dragging on and on. The clock on the wall was mocking him, even seemed to go slower just to continue the torture. History was far from his favorite class, he prefers running around outside than being cooped up into a small classroom with even smaller desks. 

 

It also didn't help that he has this class with Second Madej, sitting a row behind him, playing with a red pen and not putting attention to the lesson. And the teacher, Mrs. Burns, notices. “Second Madej, as you seem to be having fun over there I reckoned you know this lesson?” 

 

“Yup!” he says back, some giggles came from the class but was shut down by the slam of a ruler on a table. 

 

The class fell quiet as they all watched Mrs. Burns glare at Second Madej. “I see. Can you tell me who founded the city?”

 

“I don't know, can I?” he responds not looking at her but the pen in his hand. 

 

More giggles. Bergara can see that Mrs. Burns was losing patience, so Madej has to hurry up and say the answer. “Second Madej, you--”

 

“Nicholas Bourbaki… the first. Not the Main and First Priest but his great-great-great-great… you know what I mean. The position of Main is passed down to generations unlike the rest of the position of the Priests-- that is elected by the Main -- after that Priest dies.” 

 

The bell rings and the class tries to leave as fast as they could but the teacher stopped them. She says to Madej to put his hands out. He did, knowing well what's coming. Mrs. Burns raises the ruler she used to calm the class and slams it against his hand, hard. 

 

Bergara could see Madej's face twist in pain but no sound was erupted from his mouth. He lost count how much she hit his hands but slams one the hardest and then leaves him be. “Leave,” she says. 

 

The whole class leaves in a blink. 

  
  
  


Outside, kids were walking and talking, the younger ones were entering school at this point and Bergara was able to see his brother before disappearing into the school area where the younger kids are in. But he didn't wave at him, they were too old for that. He remembers when he walked his brother to his class when they were younger, he remembers when they were close, he remembers when they were actually family. 

 

Bergara felt the air being knocked out of him when he saw Second Madej. That familiar face that he was fond of. Memories of chasing each other through the bushes to play, playing “Adventure” at the park, playing swords with sticks from the trees. But those memories seemed to be fake, a million years ago. A lifetime ago. 

 

But they were forced to part after one of the greatest sin was committed by his mother that lead her with an _X_ crossed on her face under her left eye. The ugly scar still remains that's why she doesn't leave home, her face was an embarrassment to the family name. 

 

Shame was written over their heads and on their eyes like a red marker that made them stand out. Father Madej fell in line and walks with his head down against the pressure of judgeful eyes; Mother Madej ( _The Sinner,_ as people call her) does not leave home unless it's for Church and even with her commitment, she is a heathen under their eyes, a whore wanting to get into Paradise; First Madej had his mouth sewn shut to keep himself from being another target, fighting his way into an education and many people theorize that he might become one of the Priest when he grows up; and Second Madej, oh god, where does he start? He was older than Bergara but he was still young during the embarrassment. He fought, with his fists and mouth and his head up high, looking into the eyes of a beast that might kill him for being himself. 

 

Bergara looks down at Madej's hands sees them beat up and bruised because of the teacher's ruler. He feels bad for him when he looks up to see Madej looking at him. The question “Why aren't you talking to me?” is in his eyes.

 

And Bergara shakes his head after his eyes show him the answer: “I don't know.” 

 

***

 

The end of the day was as satisfying of trying to make a balloon but instead of making it pop it deflates. People whispered about Madej when Bergara was waiting in front of the school for his brother. _”He got beat in class!”_ whispered a girl to her friend. _”He probably deserved it, I mean, look at him!”_ the friend said. _”He’s the son of a whore!”_

 

_”He is not!”_ Bergara snapped, suddenly feeling betrayal and anger to a person that was just a memory.

 

The girls stare at his in horror while his mouth is heavy with what feels like is blasphemy; and he loves it.

 

***

 

“Want some?” Second Madej offers the cigarette to him. They were behind the Church where they played when they were tiny and shiny and playing tag. Now they were back like some dead love story. How cliché.

 

Bergara took it and took one puff of smoke in before coughing it out. His lungs burned and ached while Madej laughed like a maniac. “You're still a virgin aren't you?” 

 

He coughed, “Shut up.” 

 

Then he flashed him that smile that he was so in love with (in a non romantic way). Madej's face was scrunched up and he showed off his crooked teeth and he looks so damn happy. “Hey, you still want my offer?” 

 

“Where's the adventure taking place?” he asked while wiping his mouth. 

 

He leaned close into his ear like whispering like a childish secret. “Outside.” 

 

***

 

It was stupid, he admits but he wants to leave and then punished afterwards. It's so masochistic and he needs to feel alive again. Even if he's going to get beat when he comes back.

 

_ If he comes back. _

 

That thought was something that he knew so well but he pushes it down like him pushing down his pants into his backpack. 

 

Then, they ran.

 

They ran to the edge of the city to the tall brick Wall that protects them from the outside. “I'll push you up and I'll follow, okay?” Madej says as he takes off his backpack and _throws_ it over the Wall. _Oh, so they are doing this._

 

“...Okay,” he mumbles as he hesitantly took off his backpack and threw it like his friend did. Madej got on one knee and linked his hands together so it could be a step to push on.

 

“Go,” he whispered and Bergara took one giant step of faith. 

 

Into the woods they go. 


	27. DAY 27-- SEANCÉ

Envy.

 

That's what he felt. Envy. The Green eyed monster consuming him from the inside, sharp claws and teeth snapping and ready to rip throats out. That type of envy that makes you sick then mad and then so sad-- in that order, according to Banjo. 

 

And it was so fucking stupid too. He felt envious of a _child_. A fucking child. Someone who didn't do anything wrong or without even meaning it. If his normal past self saw him like that he'll punch his teeth out. But he isn't his normal self anymore. He's a man craving love. He's a man that found a drug and he can't quit it and needs another hit. He's a goddamn junkie for Ricky. 

 

Yes, he was aware that Ricky had a… lap dog with him, he's seen her. And she has always need kind towards him, smiling and even helping with gifts that Ricky might like. But Banjo was so envious of Sophia because she always Ricky's attention and she always sits next to him. 

 

It made Banjo insane.

 

He might need a therapist for that. 

 

***

 

The sound of the plastic hairs of the broom was the only sound coming from the whole study. Josh was doing his job while Banjo was supposed to be doing his. But everything was so distracting. 

 

The plastic hairs and the music leaking from Josh's headphones, the neon lights flickering and buzzing in the ceiling, the ticking of the clock on the wall. He wanted to scream and cry. 

 

And he did.

 

He cried in his hands, scared and mad. He cried the as hard as him crying over his dead mother. He cried like he just woke up from night terrors freely and unashamed. Why was he crying? Was he crying over some heartbreak like a teenage girl? Was he crying because he will never be enough for the man he loves? 

 

He was crying because everyone that he loves is dead.

 

An arm wrapped around one of his arms that was prompted up on his desk and felt someone's head pressed against forearm. Banjo knew who it was and that's why he let Josh hug his arm for comfort. He needed it.

 

And he's afraid that then Josh might end up dead because of it. 

 

“Mr. McClinkton,” Josh says. “Who hurt you? Was it your boyfriend?” 

 

Banjo managed a small laugh out of his throat through the crying. “God, I wish he was mine.” 

 

“He's going to break you,” Josh said, quietly like a secret that might offend. 

 

Another pathetic laugh. “I feel like it might be worth it.” 

 

Lights then shone in Josh's eyes, something that he was very accustomed of. Josh's eyes light up when he has an idea. Not a small one like what color to paint a room or anything like that. No, it was when ideas that were as clever as you can imagine to come from a sixteen year old. “I can help you with something…” 

 

***

 

Josh took out matches from the pocket of his jacket. The smell of lavender filled the room, courtesy to the candle in the corner of the room, far from the other ones that were right in front of them. It was Josh’s idea to contact spirits, Banjo was skeptical at first and then the teenager explained: “My grandmother was a _bruja_. A good one. She used her powers to bring closure to families that don’t know how their family died. But you can ask the spirits questions to help you make decisions.” 

 

Banjo moved his paperwork away from the desk and cleaned anything that might catch on fire. Josh put the board in the center of the small square of candles then an orange that was going to be Banjo's lunch. “Put your hand on the piece,” Joshua said as he put two fingers on the piece. 

 

Banjo stares at the board and swallows. It wasn't a Ouija board, Joshua said that he didn't trust those that much and it was something of his grandmother. It was similar to a Ouija board but it had no moon or sun or numbers. Just the alphabet going in a circle. It was handmade and the alphabet being burned into the wood.

 

Banjo put two fingers on the glass piece. 

 

“Hello?” Joshua asked, closing his eyes and seemed to be concentrating. “We bring you food as an offering to step through the veil and give us your wisdom.” 

 

Nothing happened until the piece suddenly moved on it own towards three letters. Y E S. Banjo insides shook with fear. He couldn't believe it moved by itself. 

 

“Ask your question,” Josh whispered. 

 

Banjo's neck began to sweat and opened his mouth. “He… hello. May I ask who am I talking to?” He spoke at the same tone that he used when he was a teenager and was trying to brown-nose the boss to get the job. 

 

The piece moved again: S H E R R Y. 

 

And he wanted to cry tears of joy. “Hey, Mama.” 

 

Josh opened his eyes and looked up to see his boss wanting to cry again. “That's your mother?”

 

Banjo didn't answer and continue to ask. “Mama, I wanna ask you something. I want someone but he's far too occupied with someone else. What should I do?” 

 

He was staring at the glass piece, waiting for an answer any minute now. He was suddenly committed to this conversation. God, how he has missed his mother. If he can go back and spend more time with her with the knowledge that she was going to die the way she did then he would have spend every minute possible he could. 

 

The piece didn't move for a while and the calm atmosphere had slowly vanished, fading slowly into tension. A presence was being known, sitting in the space between him and Josh. He saw it from the corner of his eye, in between his eyelashes that made his cheeks sour with nervousness. There was something wrong.

 

“Mama?” he asked, suddenly frighten.

 

Then, the piece began to move across the board rapidly, Josh pulled away as if it had burned him. “What the fuck!” he yelled as he saw the glass move across the board with Banjo's fingers still on the glass.

 

K I L L H E R K I L L H E R K I L L H E R K I L L H E R K I L L H E R… KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER. 

 

The glass shattered and it cut Banjos hand. He put his hand far from the board yet the glass moved still. Saying the same word over and over again. 

 

K I L L H E R. 

 

_ Do it. _


	28. DAY 28-- DEMON

“... I am not a demon,” Nights says to the court. He couldn't believe that he has to prove the fact that he is in fact human. He breathes in oxygen and exhales carbon dioxide. He bleed when he's cut. He gets tired after a long day of work. He needs sleep. He's human. 

 

But the court thinks that he's a monster. Well, they mean “demon” as in a metaphorical monster. The court was rather harsh, they are mob members after all. Night was surrounded by upper rank men, all working hard for their position and it shows with the scars across almost everyone's face. Except for one. The leader of all of the men sat in the center. 

 

Eugene Lee Yang. 

 

A beautiful man with ugly insides that hurt everyone with one look. He was basically the Devil of this court of demons-- yet they want to call _him_ a demon? Get the facts straight. 

 

“No one kills like you do,” Rubin says, one of Yang's right hands. “And I would like to congratulate you.” 

 

Night swallowed. 

 

_”You have become of a new staple of stupidity,”_ she spat through her teeth. The court made sounds of agreement, but Yang's face stayed completely still. “You risked not just yourself but almost the whole Mob. If you died out there they would link you back to us.” 

 

Yang's other right hand, Kornfield, then added: “They found the body. Not only the police but the Italian Mob. It's all over the news! _Mob Boss’ first child found dead in a horrific manner._ No one kills like that.” For someone so small, he was scary when mad. _”Just you.”_

 

“I--” Night opened his mouth but the whole court began to speak, angry voices overlapping. Tension and fear gathered in Night's stomach. There are very few things he fears, and the past is the biggest one. Flashbacks of yelling at home made his whole body twitch and sink down into itself. Flashbacks of hands reaching towards him and touching everything they could reach. Flashbacks sobbing in the shower, trying to wash away the pain and sin. 

 

Sensory overload made him sick. It's too loud. Too loud. Loud. Then-- it stopped. 

 

Night didn't want to look up but he had to, he knows what was coming. He forced himself to look up and saw Eugene Lee Yang raised his hand to stop the noise, face cold and harsh. He slowly stands up, tantalising and even cruelly slow. “Night-Night… Nicolas,” he spoke, voice as cold as ice. “I respected you for a long time. I understood your… issues which led to messy work. But this… _this_ is the last straw. With all of the pain in my heart--” liar, Night thought -- “you are expelled from the Mob.” 

 

Night's heart dropped to his shoes and his face soured with fear. He knows very well what that means. Very few people have been expelled from the Mob but he knows what that means. Let's just say it has to do with a split throat or with your brains blown out. 

 

No one makes it out of the Mob alive. 

 

***

 

Night was pacing his room, anxiety going through the roof. He couldn't die yet! He hasn't done so many things in his young life. He hasn't gone to New York, he hasn't seen _Sweeney Todd_ on Broadway yet, he hasn't gotten married yet, he hasn't got the chance to have kids, he hasn't even had the chance to… to say goodbye to his brother.

 

He hates his brother. He hates him with every inch of his being, he wishes he was dead after what he did. But he's the only family has left. 

 

Night stared at the window in his room. Maybe…

 

He speeds towards it and looks down. It's a fall, sure. He's on the second floor but maybe he's able to get away with a broken arm. Better than being dead. 

 

Fear grabbed his throat and knocked the air out of him like his mother's belt to his stomach. Is this what they all felt before Night killed them? All of them were people and he killed them. Never has Night been so scared. He has been at risk of being killed but he has people defending him but now all of the people that he cared for were betraying him. Giving their backs when Night did everything he was told. He did everything for them. 

 

He did everything for his family.

 

What he thought was his family. 

 

After a while, he accepted it. He's going to die without doing so many things. That's pathetic. He needs to cry in the shower. Night-Night jumped five feet into the air when there was loud knocking on his door. He checks the clock on the door. It's not time yet. Maybe they just need to kill him to decompose his body in the bathtub full of acid. He had to swallow his throw up when he saw someone do that with the body of a child. 

 

The knocks were getting more desperate and louder. They were impatient. 

 

What were they going to do to him? 

 

Fuck it, Night said, angry and determined to not go down without a fight. He needs to fight his way out of this. He reached down from under his bed to get the baseball bat. If he’s going down, at least he has a weapon to fight in Hell. Night knows very well that he’s going to Hell, that’s where a demon belongs. And if Shakespeare was right, Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

 

And Night has been living under demons under the same roof for years.

 

He slowly walked towards the door with the bat up ready to strike. He opened the door and swung it as hard as he could but it was stopped by a hand. “What the fuck, Night?” It was Legs. “I try to bust your ass out and this is the thanks I get?” 

 

Still high on adrenaline, he catches his breath. “What--” he was interrupted by Legs walking past him and reaching under his bed to take out a suitcase. 

 

“Come on, let's get out of here.” Legs took out clothes from Night's closet and drawer and stuffed them into the suitcase. He then took out a gun from under his coat and handed it to Night. “Here, throw that bat away.” 

 

Night stared at the gun. It was a revolver that he was a bit familiar with. He wasn't really big on guns, he was more of fighting or a knife person. “What? You're coming with me?” 

 

“Obviously,” Legs said, still having the gun in his hand and trying to give it to him. 

 

Night looked at his friend in bewilderment. Legs has always said that he wanted to be one of the upper class men in the court. He worked hard and never asked questions. He had every drop of loyalty in this mob. And to throw it all away just for him, a dead man walking, was just idiotic. “You can't. You worked too hard and you're so close to--” 

 

“You are my friend--” Legs said, forcing the gun in his hand. “--and that's enough for me to leave with you.” 

 

“Where are we going?” Night asked, gun in his has being useless. 

 

And Legs smiled with a twinkle in his old educated eyes. His hair was a mess and under a certain light it looked like horns. “Trust me, angel.” 


	29. DAY 29-- POSSESSION

There was an infestation in his imagination. Thoughts that were blood red clouds flood his head. It felt terrible. A headache of thoughts that weren't his. did not belong to him. Not only that but he saw images of things that he has never seen before. Nostalgic memories of things he has never experienced before. They were recollections a life he has never lived before. They were small snippets too. Like cut scenes of music videos. He didn’t understand them mostly, most of them were like a silent film but in color. Was this his creative conscious or something else? 

 

The first memory was a bleeding red man standing in a even redder room. The face was indescribable but he was able to make out long hair and a very masculine nose. His arms were at his side, expressing themselves to him, like an actor talking to his audience. He stood there,  talking to Banjo (who would be the audience) but wasn’t able to make out words. Banjo blinked and then the young man with long hair and a masculine nose was covered in blood. 

 

The second one was the same young man, walking around with a knife in his hand. Teasing, flirting maybe, at his audience. And he walked and talked, dancing almost at the rhythm of his own words. Like a snake able to lie and seduce him. Banjo was almost convinced that him (him? Who is he in this scenario?) and the young man slept together. More red danced around him, like theater lights in a play. 

 

Banjo ignored them for the last couple of days. He thought of them like deja vu in a way, and he was able to live with them. That was until he was blacking out at work. He was writing something on his desk when suddenly he fell face first into the desk and saw those same memories again. One of him and the same young man sitting at a table across from each other. They were drunk, obviously from the glass bottles and an almost empty bottle of whiskey. They were playing cards. Poker maybe. And when they spoke, Banjo heard them so clearly. _”Let’s play the game,”_ the young man says, showing his cards to him. _”You didn’t win,”_ Banjo’s mouth moved on it’s own. The young man grinned, _”I know, but I still stayed in the game. I knew I was going to lose but I didn’t give up. You can buy a pawn but never touch the king.”_

 

He was getting sick of tired of blacking out every once in a while. If this keeps up, he won’t be able talk to Ricky. It’s been almost a month since their last conversation and to make up for it he’s been sending bottles of wine and fur coats and a small statue that he knows that Ricky is going to enjoy. He knows what that man likes, he’ll get anything he wants if that means that he can see him flutter his eyelashes at him and smile. 

 

He was so useless around him. 

 

“You good, Boss?” Joshua asked, looking at him up from his lunch. He and Josh had made an agreement to always eat lunch together, it was almost a bonding experience too. Making them closer. Nothing says intimacy in between friendship like eating in front of each other. 

 

Banjo shrugged, not eating his lunch. After all those blacking out he’s afraid that he’ll throw up and choke on his own vomit. He shuddered at the memories of that fear birthed after his service and how he was dependent on pills and other substances. “Headache,” he grumbled, staring at Josh’s face but zoning out. He was able to see that his young friend has grown some mustache hair on his upper lip. He smiled, “You got peach fuzz.”

 

Josh grinned cheekily. “I know right! I am so proud of myself. Even though I didn’t do anything. Thank you, genetics!” The teenager took a sip of his drink before saying: “It’s funny because Julie wants to get rid of her mustache but I wanna grow mine.” 

 

They both laughed for a while. It felt like a normal day. They’ll go back to work and continue their day before they check out for the day. But then he felt the symptoms of his blackouts. His mouth going dry and heartbeat slowly going down, like laying in bed after a tired day, his eyes fluttering closed until he can’t keep them open. Then, he was gone. 

 

A rosary was tight around the young man’s neck, suffocating him. His skin was turning purple and lips turning blue. His eyes were wide in shock and fear. There was that look that Banjo knew so well. It was the last look that his comrades gave him when they knew that they were going to die. It took awhile to comprehend what was going on until he felt the young man’s hand on his shoulder and while his last shuttering breath of life he said: _“God help and forgive… us.”_ Then the young man’s life dripped down the drain, the young man’s whole body went limp. He snapped out of his daze from his daze and stared at what he has done. He killed a man. 

 

“McClinkton!” Josh yelled, standing over him. 

 

Banjo found himself in a hospital bed. This was getting out of hand. 

 

***

 

According to the brain scans, nothing came up. No tumor or sign of epileptic traits. Nothing. The doctor had asked him if he had history of mental illness in the family or substance abuse. And Banjo had to answer truthfully, in front of his only friend. He did answer, he said: “I have both.” 

 

The doctor nodded, “What type of mental illness do you have?” 

 

“PTSD,” Banjo's voice shook. 

 

The doctor scribbled it on their notepad. “And the substance abuse?” 

 

Something cold wrapped itself tightly around his heart. “Antidepressants and I drank alcohol around that time.” 

 

Even more writing on the notepad. Banjo felt Joshua's eyes on him. Feeling the betrayal and disappointment and shock being poured into him. 

 

“Have you been on medication lately?” 

 

Banjo nodded. “Yes. A bit; not as much as before.”

 

“Any illegal drugs being used?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

And that's when Joshua walked out. 

 

***

 

There was an awkward silence in the car. Joshua was driving (even if he didn't have a license) while Banjo sat in the passenger seat. It was quite awkward. No music came from the radio and with the windows all rolled up tightly, the tension was a suffocating blanket. It made Banjo's nose stuffy like a wet towel on his face.

 

“Drugs? Really? What the fuck, Banjo?” It was funny that sixteen year old was scolding him as if _he_ was the teenager. It should be the other way around. 

 

“You do pot, Josh,” Banjo said like a moody teenager. 

 

The sixteen year old shook his head. “It's not the same thing! It's legal! Unlike whatever you were doing. Or smoking or taking or even injecting!” 

 

“Oh fuck off.” 

 

“Fight me, old man!” 

 

This was petty and and just so… weird. It's as if he had entered a parallel universe where teenager were consider more mature than adults. Banjo took in a deep breath, tired and very shaken from the doctors review. He had nothing in his head yet felt to horrible. The backing out was not normal in anyway possible. So what's going on in his head?

 

After awhile of silence, Josh said: “Does this have to do with what he did?” 

 

He didn't have to say because they both know what that means. It was almost like the elephant in the room. 

 

And Banjo didn't have to open his mouth to mean “maybe”. 

 


	30. DAY 30-- OUIJA BOARD

“This might be the dumbest shit we have ever done.”

 

“Not really,” Shane says, leaves crunching under their feet. The wind was cold, stinging against their faces. It smelled like autumn and teenage nostalgia. Murmursville was a place too familiar to the two man. The streets still feel like when they walked on them ten years ago. Everything was still the same. The same bench on the bus stop. The same missing STOP sign that someone stole. The same small store in the corner with the same cashier and the same fucking ICEE machine with the same flavours. It was a time-capsule of sorts. 

 

A town frozen in time, waiting for them to come back.

 

Everything was so overwhelming. Especially to Shane. He left this town for a reason. This town held too many memories, too many people knew who he was-- who _they_ were. This was the town that he loved and believed in, the town that was his home; this was the town that turned its back at him. The small-town eyes gapes into him, watching him like he was a teenage actor and he has forgotten his lines. Having a smile and eating popcorn as they watch him make a fool of himself. Watching him stumble over words from _Macbeth_. 

 

Scout coughed, a sick one too. She had a cold three days ago and after downing fifteen cups of tea, she claimed to feel better. “So you guys called this place home? It gives me a _Halloweentown_   vibe.”

 

“It is Halloween tomorrow so we’re right on time,” Shane says. 

 

Ryan hums, feeling the pressure of this town on him. Shane was the first one to leave while Ryan was the last one. They all pointed a finger on him, blaming him for-- “... God, it still feels like 2008. All I need to see is some kid popping up the collar of his Polo shirt and that’s high school for us.”

 

She snorted. “I still can’t believe that 2008 was ten years ago. _Ten_. That’s insane! I was five when you guys were playing hooky playing under the bleachers.”

 

Both of their insides froze at the bleachers part. Even if they haven’t even passed the school yet, they both knew that their initials are still carved into the metal of the bleachers. 

 

***

 

Night fell over them like a blanket, despite the cooler air sweeping the land, the wind was bending the grass. It smells like Tuesday morning and honeydew. They were in the nice part of town, a part that Shane has been there almost everyday for almost a whole year. He was there in his sophomore year of high school, then he left like he left town. 

 

They walked past the last house before their destination. A large two story house that Shane knows far too well, as well as his own house. A house where he has laid in bed with for whole year but never loved. The house where he lied his way into forgiveness. The house where a life ended.

 

A house where he was accused of killing a woman.

 

“So this is the house,” Scout says, pointing her flashlight at the house. “This is the house Jessica Glass died in.” She then pointed the light at them, blinding them for a second. “And you two knew the poor girl.”

 

“Poor? Look at the fuckin’ house!” Ryan says, pointing the camera at her and then at the house. “She was not poor. And if you knew her like we knew her, you would have--” he stopped himself. Anger and remorse for that house and Jessica was infesting him. The house was still alive in his memories, still hearing the shitty mid-2000s music and beer stinking up the place and pot being lit in the kitchen while teenagers watched porn on TV together. This place was a the purgatory that he will see when he dies and goes to either heaven or hell. This is the place that still haunts his nightmares, the dread that fills his heart when he sees red paint or a hickey the size of a quarter. “If you just knew her like we did, you would have hated her too.”

 

Scout scoffs. “I bet Shane knew her biblically.”

 

“I did not! I dated her but I didn’t sleep with her.” They both stared at him, Scout and ryan blinked in creepy unison. “In the same bed but--”

 

“Y’all fuckin’ slept together,” she says, unamused and looking like the moody teenager she often is. She then dismissed the whole conversation to look at the house again, smiling like they were going to an amusement park instead of a house where a girl killed herself with drain cleaner. “But still, I wonder if the guy that owns the house now knows that you two were suspects.” Scout then pointed the light at Shane again, it was starting to get annoying, and she knew it too with that smile that mimics Ryan’s cheeky smile. “And you were the main suspect, no?” 

 

Shane stared at her, unsettled by the strange familiarity in those eyes. “Let’s go inside.”

 

***

 

They had to take off their shoes when they went inside, Ryan and Scout sharing an inside joke of childhood in an Asian-Hispanic (mixed with white if you were Scout’s case). Shane just shivered at the feeling of the cold wooden floor through his socks. It was Shane’s turn to hold the camera, which sucked because he slept on his wrist. “Try having a goddamn ouija board under your arm and other satanic stuff on you,” Ryan says as then walk past the kitchen and walk into the living room. His heart stops when he sees the top of the stairs, having a flashback of having red paint poured on him. The sticky and cold after it still make him wake up crying. 

 

“The ouija board was not originally satanic,” the teenager says matter-of-factly. 

 

“Shane, come get your kid!” Ryan says, gesturing at the teenager.

 

But no answer came from him, just him reminding himself to edit. This was their last location before them heading back home. Shane needs to sleep in his own bed and see his cat and listen to the familiar sound of the LA traffic in the morning. He misses his small apartment, even if the only company he has was his cat, he still wants it. He lived alone for so long until warming up to his co-worker that slowly shifted into his new best friend that didn’t spit hairballs and that later turned into a moody film-obsessed teenager with a goddamn attitude that was so understandable. If his past self saw where he was in this situation he would have laughed. But now, he's happy. 

 

They slowly walked up the stairs, creaking under every step they took. It wouldn't be so scary if the steps don't echo. Shane heard Ryan's breathe in hard when they reached to the top of the stairs. 

 

It's been ten years and he's still not over the pain and embarrassment Shane put him through. Maybe it's going to take another ten for that. 

 

It made his stomach flip when he remembers all of the name calling. How they painted Ryan's locker red and how they wrote GOD? on Shane's. Those was a memory lane he didn't want to walk through, he would run through it with his eyes closed but right now, he's forced to walk through that memory lane. Not only walk, but _sleep_ in it. Having to sleep in the place that caused so much pain that felt like the world was ending for a teenager. But that feeling it just once was enough for anyone to feel like the world might end under their feet. And Ryan's little paranoid heart might be enough for a heart attack. 

 

Shane stopped to look behind him and saw Scout looking around the house with wonder. She tends to do that a lot. She was almost urgent on doing everything that she missed from her childhood, and one of those things was a family vacation. But this is work, not a vacation but it's enough for her. It will be always be enough for her. You should have see her eyes when they slept in a nice hotel for once instead of a shitty one, she was ecstatic. 

 

“Why are you wearing an Easter sock and a Valentine's Day sock?” he asked, zooming the camera at her ugly socks. 

 

“Because,” she says, not even looking at him. 

 

He waits for an answer but it seemed like that was the reason. 

 

Scout then pulls her eyes away from the ceiling piece she was fixated on and smiled before running-- well, /sliding/ down the hall because socks and a wooden floor never make a good combination. Ryan was expected to hear a scream and a thud but he heard a gasp of wonder. Oh no, he thinks as he speed walks to the room. He was expecting her to break something (even if the house is naked) but all he saw was the sun in her eyes as she looked at the big room they stood in. 

 

They both knew this room, it was were they were both embarrassed into begging for forgiveness when they were as innocent as they could have become but the one that made them drop to their knees was the one that did wicked deeds to them. Causing a pain that still haunts them this day, and no holy water can help chase because this ghost was real; it was the ghost of their past.

 

Jessica’s room was as bare as the house, the once red walls were now white, the fuzzy carpet that was beside the also red bed was gone. The window’s exposed the outside where they saw the side lawn when the red and white curtains were supposed to be there. In the corner he could recall the vanity with bright lights that shone so bright but artificially-- just like Jessica Glass. And in the center of the room was were the bed where he slept for a whole year and felt nothing at all, no love nor lust. Just the pressure that pushed him to sleep next to a dead girl. Shane remembers the feeling of cool expensive bed sheets and warm red covers and a fluffy heart shaped red pillow that he loved more than Jessica. He slept next to the demon queen of high school. 

 

“Do we just...like, bring it out?” Scout says, pointed the light at the center of room. 

 

“That sounds terrible!” Ryan says but puts down the board. It was like those stereotypical Ouija board that have always been in horror movies where white kids slowly die in stupid fashion. 

 

They all kneel around it, one of each side and leaving one open, as if leaving a spot for the ghost to join in and play with them. Slowly, they put their fingers on the piece. Scout was the first one to put her index finger on it, smiling broadly before muttering under her breath about how people of color always die in horror movies even though they would survive because “we have fucking common sense”. Then it was Shane, because that's how he is; and lastly, it was Ryan. He put his index finger on the piece after a small prayer had left his lips. 

 

“Charlie Charlie are you here?” Scout giggled. 

 

“Wrong game, kid,” Shane says, throat buzzing with a chuckle that later left his mouth. 

 

Ryan swallows and opens his mouth, adrenaline going to his ears. He has always feared the paranormal but this was too close to home, to personal because the fucking ghost knows who he is. “Jessica Glass? Are you here? We want to know how you died, which your permission… of course.” 

 

No answer.

 

Ryan jumped a bit at Shane's sudden outburst. “Yo, Jessica! We're here and we all know Damn well you know who we are. I'm Shane, your ex-boyfriend because you're a trashy person. That's Ryan, the guy you bullied for almost a whole year. And that's Scout, she's… frankly, I don't know what is she.” 

 

“Hey!” 

 

Still no answer. 

 

Then, Ryan had a terribly wonderful idea, he opened his and slowly said the nickname he received the night of the party that ruined his life: “Red Ryan… Red Ryan… Red Ryan…” it was in tune of _Bloody Mary._

 

Again, no answer. 

 

Shane was the first to pull away, then it was Ryan. Scout still had her finger on the piece, staring at the board. She tends to do that, too. Zoning out mid-conversation, zoning out while staring at a specific place, zoning out in general. It was one of the symptoms of her PTSD. But this was… different. She stared at the board with hollow and shiny eyes. 

 

“Scout?” Ryan asked, a bit worried that she might have another episode. She had one when she was sick and they left her comfort kit in the car. 

 

She looks up and blinks slowly. Then, the piece began to move. Fast, with her fingers still on the piece. It moved so fast that Ryan almost couldn't catch where it was landing. Then he looked really hard to catch the letters and then regretting it when he understood what it said:

 

_ R E D R Y A N _

 

_ R E D R Y A N R E D R Y A N R E D R Y A N _

 

“Scout!” Ryan heard Shane yell loud enough to hear over his heart beat. He saw her nose bleeding, eyes snap so wide that it looked like they might pop out of their sockets. 

 

Then, the piece stop right on top of the Moon before hearing a this. Scout had fallen back on her back, a bloody nose running down the side of her face. Shane pulled her up and tried to wake her up, shaking her to wake up. 

 

A gasp was heard from her mouth as her eyes snap open and coughed, the blood making it hard to bleed. Shane rubbed her back as she gasped for air. Then, she said something that made Ryan's heart drop ten feet under him:

 

_ ”Did Jessica wear red?” _


	31. DAY 31-- HALLOWEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Trigger warning: major character deaths, violence, cursing}

Like it was mentioned before, the Devil wears _Coco Chanel °5._ Francesca Norris is the Devil, she's cruel and evil, a ruthless woman that is not scared to get her hands dirty. She's a woman that loves luxurious things, fur coats, jewelry, heels, make up, champagne. She's worth thousand of dollars; which is funny because she's on the FBI's most wanted list and there's a prize for her capture. 

 

Even with the Devil in his house, Ricky does not fear her. He _despises_ her. Even if he is as bad as her, violence and greed wise, he's not the Devil. He's a measly tiger. But at least being killed by a tiger is more common than having the Devil playing with your guts and then having angel cake afterwards. Ricky invited her into his house, to have a talk. 

 

One of the things that made Norris even worse than Ricky was the way she treats her lap dogs. Yes, she has more than one (what do you expect from her? She's rich!) One stood next to her, hands folded in front was a pretty little thing, but the thing that drives away that beauty was the scar going through her right eye and with a smile that was forced on her face and seems to hurt to keep on; while the second lap dog must have done something terrible because Norris was punishing him in front of him, embarrassing him to know his place. The lap dog sat on the floor, right next to Norris’ legs, and he put his head on her knee as she pets his hair. 

 

Poor things. 

 

Sophia sat next to him, and Ricky noticed a small glint of sadness in her eyes as she stares at the lap dogs. He knows that look too well, the same look she gives him when he's washing his blood-covered hands in the sink. Her eyes bounce from the one with the missing eye then the one on the floor, and her eyes accidently land of Francesca. Sophia swallows dry at the sight of the Devil's eyes. Ricky put his hand on her upper arm and squeezed it as comfort.

 

Then the Devil spoke: “Ricky, I've seen you haven't thrown out your little… doll.” 

 

The tiger tilts his head a bit, challenging her just a bit. “And I don't plan to do so.” 

 

Francesca caught on to his challenge, smiling and showing off white teeth that contrast dramatically against her dark skin. “I see. Well,” she put her hand on the lap dog on that sleeps at her legs. “Have you ever punished her when she's done wrong?” 

 

Ricky heard her gulp while his own heart began to beat manically in his chest. “She's no longer a child.” 

 

“Ah, so you did when she was younger,” Norris says as drags one of her long acrylic nails across the lap dog's eye, seeing him flinch at the thought of having his eye pulled out. But Norris shushed him as she traced a small circle on his dark cheekbone, taunting him with the sharp end of the nail. “What did you use? I bet you did it old fashioned. It suits your style. A belt, a ruler, maybe even a shoe. I know how old fashioned you are.” 

 

Sophia's eyes stung with hot tears at the mention of being beat. Heat gathered on her skin, suddenly able to feel the belt on her arm and lower back, the sharp sting of the ruler in the palm of her hands. Those pains that she pushed away but still hurt, even with no scars, they wake her up in tears. 

 

Norris brushed the lap dog's hair away from his eyes. “I haven't visited you in what seems years and you still haven't offered me a drink. Who knew you can lose manners over time?” 

 

What she really meant was: where's my drink? She wasn't asking, she was _demanding_. Like she demands attention and the finer things in life. The sunshine coming through the window curtains hit her face, still not showing nothing but the darkness she has inside in that stone, cold, black heart. Cut her and she bleeds _Chanel_. 

 

Ricky waved his hand to call forward Tinsley, who stood at the former, witnessing the whole scene. There was a tension in the air that made it so heavy, even with the window open. That tension wasn't sexual but actual hatred in the room. Rivalry and dread on both sides of the party. Tinsley's heart dropped when Goldsworth called him over. 

 

He walked shaky steps, looking almost like a baby giraffe in the process of trying to follow orders. Tinsley walks with his hands behind his back, formal and falling into the place of a waiter or a servant. “Yes, sir?” he said, the words heavy on his tongue. 

 

Goldsworth didn't answer, instead Francesca spoke up for herself. “Give me a cup of wine. Two, Ricky and I are going to catch up on some… business.” She shooed him away without a word and with Goldsworth's eyes burning into him. Tinsley was happy to get out of the room.

 

When the poor little detective left, Francesca's eyes were also on him, following until he was gone from everyone's sight and into the kitchen. She later looked at Ricky. “Where did you get him? He's… different.” 

 

He knew that look, a look of greed that cannot be satisfied by gold or fur or jades around her neck. That look of enjoying having silk wrapped around her fingers and hands, inspecting them in the light with such fascination and hunger to have the taste on her tongue. Ricky understands that hunger and pain. The lust and greed for wealth swirls in his stomach, like a flame that will never go away and was first lit when Ricky stole a golden watch from a man. He wanted to be surrounded by riches and luxuries, and he worked for them through blood. 

 

“He’s someone I picked up,” he lies to the Devil. “I kept my eye on him whilst he kept an eye on me.”

 

Something else shone in her eyes. “I see, well, I must ask you when will you grow tired of him. I would gladly take him off your hands. He seems… breakable. I might have fun with that one later on.”

 

“He’s a good man.”

 

The Devil and the tiger turn to look at the doll, who seemed to be quiet and spaced out, because that what she was supposed to do. Lap dogs have, in a way, rules they need to follow. It does depend on their master’s own wishes but one rule is very clear: _don’t speak out of line._ And she just did. She might as well slit her own wrist at that moment.

 

There was look of honest to God surprise on Francesca's face. No anger or disrespect being seen on her face. Just surprise. Then, she gently pushed the sitting lap dog’s head away from her leg and slowly stands up. Showing off her tall and slender body, looking even taller because of her glamorous heels. “Stand up, Child,” she orders.

 

Sophia stays in her seat.

 

“Stand… up,” she says again, more harsh and slowly losing her patience.

 

Ricky watches the scene with tension drowning him, like a stuffy nose in the winter. Anger ringed around his frozen heart. There are very few things that he loves: his family and money. And the Devil disrespecting his family might as well be the end of that reign of terror. Yet he knows very well that he can’t act upon his anger, he lets it consume him as he stares. His eyes were locked on Sophia’s face, seeing her calm expression in the face of one of the worse things in the universe. He can’t help but silently smile at how Francesca was slowly losing her patience towards a child. Ricky has trained her well.

 

This time she does stand but shows no weakness or fear, locking eyes with the Devil herself. That action itself was the bravest thing that anyone, even Ricky, has ever done. She raises her head up high, no fear in every small move she makes. She does tense up when Norris’ hand wraps around her chin, sharp nails slowly caressing her. Norris smiles, “You are such a pretty little thing. I can see why Ricky here cares about you. Maybe I should buy you out of his hands, you are something so…” Something cold was pressed against her neck, and she gasped when Sophia realized it was a dagger.

 

“So… luxurious. I’m quite envious of Ricky because he owns you, but--” Norris presses the sharpest end of her dagger against the hollow of the doll’s collarbone. “--you seemed to forgotten your place as a lap dog.”

 

Sophia took a gasp of relief when Norris took away the blade from her neck. A look of relief washed over her face until it was slapped out of her. It was a loud smack that echoed in the house, bouncing off the walls like a tennis ball in a small room. “And if you're anything like Ricky, you clearly didn't learn your lesson,” Francesca whispered into her ear. 

 

Instead of cowering at the touch and whisper, the doll held her cheek and stared at her. Her eyes alone said a million words that her mouth cannot mutter. 

 

The Devil works hard to burn, but you can't burn glass: she will just melt into a new form. 

 

***

 

Dreams do not have scientific explanations. It's just your subconscious creating images in your head when you close your eyes to rest. Your brain is the director, the scriptwriter, the audience, the actor, and the stage director of a movie that you alone will witness. Or maybe it was play? He doesn’t know. Dreams will never have scientific explanations; let alone nightmares.

 

Banjo went to the doctor with complaints of not able to sleep and he receiving prescribed sleeping pills. Hopefully those work. 

  
  
  
  
  


They didn't work. In fact, they made it worse. Now Banjo can't force himself to wake up in the middle of his nightmares. He's forced to watch himself do horrible crimes that he knows very well that he will never commit. 

 

_ Are you sure? _

 

Banjo jumps when he heard that whisper. There wasn't anyone at the office, he had sent Josh home and other people don't come on Saturdays. So he was at his office, all dark except for the light coming from the lamp on his desk, alone. He was alone. 

 

He didn't want to be alone. He needs sound to function, to live, to not be driven insane. Flashbacks of the silence of war that woke him in the middle of the night sit comfortable in his home and make themselves home. The quiet in which he drops and drowns in, swallowing him whole onto the dark light in his head. Hands reaching to pull him down deeper and deeper to a slow and violent death. 

 

“Who's there?” he asked, his hand going to the drawer where he keeps his gun.

 

A dark chuckle bounced off the walls and into his ears. _”Me.”_

 

Banjo pulls the gun out and points it around the room, his hands shaking and hands going sweaty. _"Where are you? Show yourself!”_ he pointed at every inch of the office with his finger on the trigger. All of his anxiety and paranoia closing in on him and making it hard to breathe.

 

The entity chuckled again. _”I am everywhere and nowhere. I am the light and the darkness. I am around you…”_ then Banjo felt something behind his ear, _”and in you.”_

 

Suddenly, his hand let go of the gun, hearing it clatter on the floor. He stared at his hand with horror. He didn't want to do that, he needed the gun to feel safe. Then the air got knocked out of him when he was pushed by nothing and into the wall. Banjo's first instinct was to swing but his arms were pinned to his side.

 

He took a big gulp of breath as he struggled to pull away but all he was met was a sting pain in his wrist. _”Listen to me, and you will get what you want. Who you want.”_

 

Banjo forced his eyes open and saw through blurry sight from in between his eyelashes and saw the ghastly sight of dark eyes pouring themself into him. The darkness of that abyss that he was staring into was staring right at him. 

 

He was swallowed by darkness…

 

And he fell into a body that didn't belong to him. A body that held a crowbar in his hands and slowly walked up to a child, a girl, young and pretty with doll-like looks. The girl cowards into the corner of the room and raises her hands to defend herself, the body grabbed her wrists with just one hand and began to beat her to a bloody pulp. 

 

It didn't take long for the girl to stop breathing, blood pooling around her and slowly trickling closer to Banjo's shoe. 

 

Banjo's shoe…

 

The shoes he was wearing were his. 

  
  
  


He saw his office carpet up close when he woke up, he saw all of the dust and small trash up close like he was looking under a microscope. All of the feeling slowly sinking back into his body, alongside an ache in his soul that he will never forget. His arms feel sore, like when he used to do pull up in the Army. An immense soreness that he wonders if he had pulled a muscle. 

 

Banjo tried to get up, trying to use his knees to propped himself up but instead, he was pushed down like a knee being pressed in between his shoulder blades. _”That's what you want…”_ it hisses in his ear. _”If you kill then you'll get what you want.”_

 

He opened his mouth to utter a single sentence that seals the deal: _”I want it…”_

 

***

 

“Legs!” 

 

“What!” 

 

“Where are we going?” Night asked. He and his only friend managed to escape the Mob. _The fucking Mob._ No one has made it out of the Mob alive. Or being alive in a casket and being buried alive later. Oh well. But some of the adrenaline that Night still had in him made him jittery, clingy even. Anyone would be clingy when your best friend just saved your life from a mob that wants to execute you. 

 

They just got off the plane, it was a short plane ride. An hour tops, and in that hour Legs hasn't said a word. The fucking asshole. 

 

“I just saved your ass from the Mob, now shut up, I'm thinking!” 

 

Night stared at his long legged friend and blinked. “You don't know where we're going, don't you?” 

 

Legs waved his hand in dismissal, looking like those big inflatable plastic guys that are in front of car dealerships. Speaking of which, Night was getting tired and has the urge to annoy his friend into renting a car. But as much as he knows, they barely have money on them. They were walking in the streets of L.A., a fascinating city that Night has never thought of going. He fancied himself a New York kind of guy, but the City of Stars is closer than the City of Dreams. They walked the city with their suitcases in their hands while Legs had his other hand occupied with his phone. 

 

His private phone. Not the one that was connected to the Mob's paycheck but the one that he kept under his mattress. Frankly, Night was impressed that Legs planned this. But then again, he was the clever one of the duo. 

 

Night was all brawn and wide shoulders and muscle, always played sports as child. Football (soccer), American Football, basketball, baseball. Anything to get him out of the house and could show off his abilities in any type of physical activities. 

 

While Legs was a lean thin man with a strange face that was strangely attractive if you squint or you just get used to watching it every day. Night has seen the man shirtless, seeing miles of white skin with firm but minimal muscle and soft fat under his stomach that show off his age. If Legs was a woman he would have been a great 1920s flapper. 

 

Night stopped when his friend also stopped. In front of a small hotel with the name _Hotel Memories_ above it in red cursive neon lights. “This is our stop,” the tall ex-mobster said. 

 

“What exactly is here?” asked the short ex-mobster whilst looking up at the building. A small building that has five floors and its bricks were painted black and where he was standing he could see graffiti on its side of the words _Dope Sick._

 

Legs shoved his phone into the pocket of his trousers. “I have a friend waiting for us there. He'll help us.” 

 

A small anxiety-like feeling grew around his heart. Something in his gut was telling him to turn around and run in the other direction. Something in him was telling him to not go inside because this might be a trap. But Legs wouldn't do that to him, he trusts him with his life, he'll follow him blind into a room that's been booby trapped. But something in the back of his head that bring up childhood memories and slowly release smoke to slowly choke him, the carbon dioxide slowly making his lungs feel dry and like a dead leaf still in a tree during winter. Night could just punch Legs in the face and run as far as he can from this place, maybe start a new life again, he already knew the progress of doing that.

 

Instead, Night took a step of faith with his only friend at his side.

 

Little did he know that he will enter into a war which he is half of to fight an enemy with a similar face. 

 

***

 

Exhaustion sank in all of them as they sat in the back of the car. Shane was leaning on the door with his head pressed against the glass while Ryan was leaning against his arm while Scout leaned against Ryan's arm. They look like dominos that had fallen over. And they are, all of them need a shower and a bed to sleep in and breakfast that didn't include fast food. That's what they get for starting a small ghost hunting show. 

 

It was small, with only a thousand subscribers. It started with a friendly argument between he and Shane and Scout enjoyed it so much she told her friend and that friend told another and another and another until it was popular news in kids and some adults, even teachers seemed interested in that conversation. 

 

So Scout brought an old shitty camera and recorded it to post it online. Then, they became popular. Popular enough for some people to recognise them but not enough for autographs or selling merch. Who knew that they could have made money out of that?

 

As that… job (?) started in the summer they had many views and many of their viewers wanted them to travel to haunted places to debunk/prove the existence of one of the greatest questions on earth. So many people funded them to go to places, even fucking YouTube. So they travel. And even with the school year she still travels with them and she does homework and assignments on the road. The sight of her hair in a messy bun and reading glasses on her nose while being surrounded by books with a pen in her hand as she scribbled on her notebook with messy handwriting is a sight that was nostalgic and almost historical. All she needs is to have a candle on the table to look like a female Benjamin Franklin or Alexander Hamilton. 

 

The Jessica Glass house was a pain on all of them. Scout having an episode after the Ouija board thing and not having the kit at hand was very nerve-wracking. They had to go back in the old fashion way and try to calm her down. “What's your name?” Shane asked her as they slowly walk towards her. The answer came after a few gasps of air, “Scout…” Ryan had to take off his coat and slowly hand it to her so she can hug it as a replacement for the stuffed little teddy bear with the red hat and blue coat. She took it gladly and hugged as she took in deep breaths of air in. It was Ryan's turn to ask so she can grow familiar with both of their of voices, “What year is it?” “2018,” came her shaky response. “Where's Ana?” Shane asked, him being able to be bold in asking the very hard to ask questions. Scout sobbed into the coat but still answered, “Dead. She's gone.” “You're safe, it's okay…” 

 

Scout needed a shower after that. And Ryan needs to wash his coat. 

 

None of them noticed the taxi stopping in front of the closest hotel. They could just go home into their own familiar beds and walls but it's too far for them. So a hotel has to be where they crash for the night. It took the taxi driver to shake Ryan so they can all wake up. “Ain't this your stop?” said the driver in a southern accent. Shane nodded sleepily as he shakes the other two awake. They slowly gather their stuff and stand outside of _Hotel Memories._

 

“What time is it?” Scout slurred as she rubs her eyes sleepily. 

 

“Time isn't real,” says Shane but still checks his watch. “But it's 3 a.m.” 

 

“I still have time for homework,” she says as she picks up her backpack. 

 

That woke Ryan right up. “No you don't. You're getting your ass into a shower and then to bed,” he says. He was sure that maybe he was wagging his finger. All he needs is a robe and slippers to look like his mother, he's starting to sound like her. Maybe because he was getting old.

 

“But--” 

 

“No buts!” Ryan says in a tone that means _Don't you argue with me_ and that tone came from his dad. Oh God, he _is_ getting old.

 

The teenager then turns to look at the taller man while gestures at Ryan. “Get… get your mans!” Shane just shook his head, taking “his mans” side.

 

Scout groans as she rubs her face. “Fine! But you write a note to my teacher why my essay is late.” 

 

“You just had an episode a few hours ago,” Ryan says calmly but trying to emphasize a point. “You need rest. You have blood on your shirt!” 

 

She looks down at her shirt to see that she, indeed, has blood on her shirt. “Ugh, fine!” Scout picked up her bag and stomps angrily towards the entrance of the door. 

 

Ryan sighs, returning tiredness into his body. Why does he have to be the bad cop? He isn't. He just needs to make Scout understand that she's so damn… reckless. That her impulsive actions have consequences, and if that leads him receiving attitude and teenage sass then so be it. 

 

It doesn't help that Shane is strict in a different way. He was the youngest for God's sake! He won't understand nor know what it's like to be the one on a tight leash. Shane won't understand what it was like to be raised like military brats, basically standing at the front of their bedroom doors at 6 a.m to start the day. He won't understand being suffocated with stress and expectations from an immigrant household and being the first born. He won't understand being called strange for choosing a career in the arts when he had the chance to study banking or something with money on the mind. He won't understand--

 

“It's okay,” Shane's voice snapped him away from his mental vomit. “I understand.” 

 

“You do?” he wanted to ask but his mouth listened to his anger to say: _”No, you don't.”_

 

***

 

Norris is famous for many things and being a gossiper is one of them. She apparently had spread the word that Tinsley, Goldsworth's little manservant, would easily follow orders if you just wave a knife in front of him and someone had agreed to buy him away from him. Goldsworth was somewhat relieved by that, not being constantly worried that the detective would escape. After this night, he would be someone else's problem. But something danced in his heart, a small yet present melody that mimicked one of Sophia's music box. It was a feeling. What feeling was it? 

 

He didn't know.

 

Maybe it was joy… no no. Only Sophia can cause that feeling, triggering it with a giggle. Maybe it was anger? No, he feels it in his stomach as a burning feeling that would make the sun seem like a small flame of a match. Through Tinsley's last weekend he thought about it very well, it wasn't until they were all getting ready for the foolish detective's departure that Goldsworth realized that it was both sadness and disappointment. 

 

A disappointment that he ignored while Sophia fixed his hair and fixed his blazer and white button down shirt. He decided to wear something less fancy and more casual yet still flaunting the fact that he has money. It is, after all, business. 

 

“Which one do you want to wear?” she asks. She was referring to the necklaces she had in each hand. One of them was a charm necklace with a reasonable size black medallion, he remembers that his uncle pressed the necklace into the palm of his hand and whispered into his ear that it would protect him from evil. Now Ricky wants to dig up his uncle's body from the grave just to tell him that he handed the medallion to the wrong guy. He doesn't know why he kept it, maybe pity or just remorse as it was the last thing from his family he has left. On the other hand (literally) she held a golden rosary that was a gift from McClinkton. It a pretty thing but never was his style. 

 

“Why don't you wear the rosary, child?” he says. “It would look nice on you with that dress of yours.” 

 

Sophia smiles and nods but first goes behind him and puts the medallion from around his neck. “There you are, Mr. Goldsworth. It looks nice.” She then points at the mirror in front of both of them and he sees their reflection. He looks old and tired, even at his young age. Maybe the guilt of those murders are finally sitting in his eyes, making them harder and darker and more cold. Maybe. Ricky shaved this morning but some shadow was around his chin while his skin looked slightly oily under the light. Honestly, he looks like he let himself go. And around his neck, over his shirt, the black medallion with symbols of some old religion sat comfortably in his chest. He unbuttoned the three top buttons of his shirt. 

 

He heard Sophia make a small noise of displeasure but that same smile on her lips. “What?” he asks as he stands, now towering over her. “I look too old.” He takes the rosary and slowly turns her around so they face the large mirror in front of them. 

 

“I beg to differ,” she says as she closes her eyes, feeling the golden rosary landed on her chest and it wrapping it around her neck. “You simply look… mature.” 

 

Ricky pulled his hands away from the now-clicked necklace and put his hands on her shoulder as he leans to look at themselves. It was strange to see or even feel himself soften. No one thinks that evil has a weakness, but they are wrong. No one thinks that bastards with blood on their hands don’t care about anyone but themselves, but they are wrong. Everyone knows that psychopaths and serial killers have a fondness, or even an _obsession_ , with their own mothers. _Oh I killed hundreds of men! But I will never hurt my mother!_ And with their mothers either gone or dead, they snap even more. But Ricky's mother is dead and he can at least control himself. He hasn't snapped just yet. 

 

_Yet_.

 

With no mother, his psychopathic brain has focused on someone that was not his mother. Someone that was way younger. Someone that he had a chance to actual express the small humanity he has to. Someone who he cares about deeply. 

 

Sophia smiled, pink flushing on her face at the sight of the glimmering rosary around her neck. It was rare to see her wear pink, sky blue was her color. Maybe she was changing. The rosary sat at the same place on her chest the same place Ricky's medallion sat on on his chest. How they both looked in the mirror looks like something from a family drama where the family portrait foreshadows many things. 

 

Ricky blinks and for a split second, a image of how that portrait should look danced in the darkness of his eyes. The portrait was one that looked like their image in the mirror, but Ricky's eyes were scribbled and mimicked _The Blind Man_ painting and a heart that a child would draw was on his chest as paint dripped down the canvas; Sophia stood at his side, like she always and always will be, and there was a thin red line on her neck and a big flower on the midriff of her pink dress.

 

He opens his eyes and sees the portrait as something not real and just pets her hair.

  
  
  
  
  


“It's now or never,” Tinsley paces in his room. He looks up at the clock on his wall and his stomach twists in several tight and sour knots. He only has a few hours in the Goldsworth home before being sold God knows where! In fact, would it be strange that he rather stay with the tiger than with some other animal? Tinsley has grown fond of Miss Sophia, worrying for her well-being every so often when Goldsworth paces around his home in anger.

 

After his accidental slap, he has become very cautious around her. But still abused Tinsley, using him like a stress releasing punching bag. And very few occasions, Tinsley found himself running alongside Sophia to see where his anger will lead. After Goldsworth's burst of anger, the tall detective would pick up after him while Sophia soothed him and she rubbed comfortable circles across his shoulder. And something in him told him to do that too. He reached to rubbed his bony thumb against his wrist, feeling the tiger flinch but letting himself be comforted. 

 

Tinsley snaps himself away from that daze and stared at the stolen phone. He has to call before they go. He has to. 

 

But that feeling of… something and curiosity made his fingers not pressing against the numbers. Curiosity was something he was familiar with when he was around Goldsworth but something else. 

 

Anxiety gathered in his chest when he realized what it was. Time stopped for a moment as he dropped onto his knees in front of his bed, the thin mat barely cushioning his fall. His heart beats in his ears slowly, almost deafening him. _This can't be possible,_ he thinks as he weaves his hands in his hair, leaving the phone clatter on the ground in front of him. _Why me?_ he wanted to cry. _Why me? Why did I-- WHY DID I FALL IN LOVE WITH A FUCKIN’ PSYCHO!_

 

Well, not fall in love. More like… Stockholm-Syndrome-Love with a fuckin’ psycho. 

 

A shiver went down his spin, the muscle in his legs aching and sweat gathered under his shirt. Tears began to drip from his eyes like a semi open water faucet as boiling water while fear squeezed his heart tightly, tight enough to make him nauseous. 

 

_”I don't wanna go…”_ he whispered into the phone after pressing 911 and then hang up at the sound of steps getting closer and closer. 

  
  
  
  


So that's how he's in this damn hotel that looks like the beginning of a trashy horror movie. The red carpet underneath them was a pathetic excuse of cushioning and the air was thick with cheapness that Tinsley was sure that Goldsworth might get a rash. He looked like he didn't belong here, the smell of his expensive cologne was basically a bubble around them, fending off the tacky and fake brand names. 

 

Goldsworth all he needed was a exaggerated large fur coat and a golden tooth to look like a cartoonish pimp. He does look good, a gold ring on his actual-to-god ring finger. Tinsley squinted and saw that Sophia was wearing a similar ring on her index finger on her right hand. Perfect parallels. When she caught him staring at her, she slowly walked to his side, Goldsworth being too busy glaring at the door to notice. 

 

“Hey,” she whispered. 

 

He didn’t say anything, far too nervous and still looking at the door, his insides shivering and seemed to be floating inside of him. She noticed that he was nervous and slowly slipped her hand in his and squeezed it a bit in comfort. Tinsley then came to the realization that she was so _small_. He was tall, yes but Sophia in comparison was so small, her hand made up a little bit more than half of his hand. Long digits against her tiny and dainty hand. His pinky was longer than her middle finger. She was tiny. She was a… 

 

“Doll.” 

 

They both turn to look at the tiger, staring at them with a darkness in his eyes. It was predatory and a warning. A look of ownership. The thing that made Tinsley sweat bullets was that he didn't know who he was giving the look to. 

 

Sophia flashed him a last smile and before walking away she pressed something small and cold in the palm of his hand. She stood by her master's side, folding her hands in front of her pink dress. 

 

Tinsley looked down at the palm of his hand and saw the shiny gold ring that wouldn't even pass his fingernail. Unsure what to do, feeling like the only adult in the room and being handed something from a toddler that was useless as a gift. He pocketed it in his slacks.

 

“Who are we waiting for?” she asked, an angelic voice that would make anyone's heart melt. 

 

Ricky's stressed and stone cold face slowly softened at the sound of her voice. “A client.” 

 

Speaking of the Devil… someone walked through the door. Two people. And it was not the Devil herself.

 

Tinsley's mouth falls open. Oh God, he's seeing double.

 

***

 

Time stopped underneath Night's feet. His first thought was that he was dreaming, that he had fallen asleep at his room and the plane flight was only a dream and that when he woke up he would be executed. But he rather be killed than being in the same room with-- 

 

“Ricky…” he gapes.

 

It was his brother. His twin brother. His _identical_ twin brother. _His fucking identical twin brother._ Well, almost identical. After years of being separated they look like their own respected person but if you look at them side to side, you can't deny their relation.

 

His brother's face went through too many emotions to count. At first it was surprise, then bewilderment, then some sprinkle of sadness and anger before his face returning to his stone cold expression. 

 

“How do you do, brother?” he asked, a smile slowly growing on his face.

 

That's when Night snapped. All of the anger from the past ten years gathered in his heart and caused him to throw his suitcase aside and tackle him to the ground. Normally Night would be embarrassed of fighting in front of people but he was too busy feeling rage to think. 

 

Ricky hasn't changed, not one bit. He still played dirty like when they were when they were children. Night had punched him across the jaw, hard enough to draw blood, and he felt it when he went to punch him again but was met with a kick in the gut. He gasped for air and was pulled down but instead of his back being pressed against the carpet underneath them, he was fell right on top of him. Night took his chance and grabbed Ricky's neck, staring at him dead in the eyes.

 

But instead of fear or sadness, he had an evil glint in his eyes that made Night's blood run cold. Then he felt something cold on his neck and suddenly understood that he lost. Again.

 

The switchblade sharp edges was pressed against his throat and seeing how Ricky was holding it, he didn't care for causing even more damage. Blood for blood was always a thing for them. And even after ten years apart, here they are at each other's neck. Literally. It was a wave of nostalgia that drowned both of them. 

 

“Night!” Legs yelled, and seemed to have been yelling too, alongside the two people that Ricky had brought. Night felt himself being pulled away as carefully and as fast as possible with a serial killer having a knife against his throat. Legs seemed to be more scared of Ricky than Night himself, not wavering his eyes away from him. 

 

Ricky stood from the floor and holding his jaw with blood from his mouth drips into his hand. One of the people that he was with scurried to his side. It was a girl with dark brown hair and large yet almond shaped eyes with a pink dress. He watched as he saw her hand Ricky her handkerchief that he took to clean the blood from his mouth. 

 

The second person he was with was staring at the whole scene with his mouth open. He was tall and slim and with long--

 

“Legs,” Night whispered to his friend, feeling his throat scratchy because of the pressure of his brother's hand on his throat. 

 

“Hmm?” he didn't even look, too busy covering his face from the embarrassment, and honestly he didn't blame him of being embarrassed after the shit Night pulled.

 

Night took a gasp of air as he witnessed the girl stare at him and her brown eyes grow large before looking back at the man with his mouth open and then looks down at her feet in confusion and seemed to be whispering to herself before covering her mouth in shock. She saw it too. 

 

“Do… do you have a brother?” he whispered. 

 

Now Legs looked up to look at him. “Yeah but he's in prison. Serving ten years. Why?” 

 

Night couldn't even speak, instead he just pointed a shaky finger at the guy that he and Legs share… they share the same face. Identical almost. Expect that few whiskers on the guy's face and how he holds himself. He seemed timid, scared even but his mouth was still open. 

 

Same nose, same hair, same body type, same height (mostly) same face in general. Night was almost taken back by the face because Legs is… well… not attractive. Not that that's the only thing that matters, he certainly has the personality to make up for it but that face was what made him unique. Anyone can be loyal and harsh and learn to shoot any gun in a limited amount of time but his face was the one that made him special. That nose and tired looking eyes that made him look like a sloth. It was charming. 

 

But now he discovers that someone looks like his best/only friend was something so… baffling. 

 

“Shut your mouth, Tinsley, you'll draw flies, baby,” Ricky says as he lets his blood dry and shoves the bloodied handkerchief into Legs-Not-Well-Maybe-Twin hand. 

 

The Doll looks at the “Twin” and then back at Legs. “Oh dear. I think I need to sit down. I'm seeing quadruple.” 

 

Ricky looks back at Night and Legs and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Your buddy here is twin of my… friend here?” 

 

Legs shook his head and took a step forward and inspected his look-alike. “I do have a brother but he's in prison serving a dime.” He stared at Tinsley for a while before asking: “What's your full name?” 

 

The detective's mouth snaps shut so fast that it hurt just a bit. “I, um, Charles Cooper Tinsley.” He had the urge to salute, something common in the academy when they ask your name. He also had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying “sir”. 

 

“Origin?” 

 

“What?” 

 

Legs rolled his eyes. “Where's your last name from?” 

 

Tinsley blinked and swallowed. “Oh… uh, England.” 

 

His look alike nodded and fixed the collar of his shirt, revealing a scar that was ugly and jagged, the scar tissue was messy and looked more like a burn than a scar. “I see. Well, my last name is Polish. Nowak.” 

 

Night raised an eyebrow. “That's your last name?” He has never asked Legs name or last name. It actually never came up in conversation, only Night has revealed his name to him but that was usually when he was drunk out of his mind which led to Legs dragging him out of the bar so he won't expose himself as someone wanted by the government. 

 

The tall ex-mobster looked back to his friend. “You honestly thought my real name was fuckin’ “Legs”? Jesus, Night. And for your information my real name is Logan Charles Nowak.” 

 

Ricky smiles a sharp smile, which show the differences of the twin brothers. Ricky was a tiger smile, showing off teeth as warning and if you listen very closely you can almost hear a growl coming from the back of his throat; but Night's smile was something subtle, a twitch of the mouth one like from someone that has a secret that can ruin someone's life. 

 

“Seems like you two have the same middle name, might be related?” the tiger says.

 

Night sighs. “We have a cousin that married a Charles.” 

 

“Really?” Ricky says, smile fading. “Which one?” 

 

Flashbacks of arguing over the dinner table but their dinner consisted of a sandwich and an empty seat where their mother was supposed to be but was instead sweating bullets in the diner close to their house. 

 

“Maria,” Night says, remembering when he got the wedding invitation and he was thinking that he wanted to go but… but he couldn't.

 

Ricky made a face, “I thought they got divorced.” 

 

Before Night couldn't continue this conversation he got interrupted by the young girl in pink. “Mr. Goldsworth, I am very sorry and I know that it might be none of me business-- even though it is --can I ask just one question?” 

 

Almost everyone nodded.

 

_”Who are you?”_ she asks as she points at Night. 

 

It went so quiet that you would hear a pin drop up stairs. The quiet morphed itself into a hand and wrapped itself around Tinsley's throat, the thumb pressing harder and harder against his airway and threatening to pop it like bubble wrap. He was saved by Night roaring into laughter.

 

He laughed for a couple of seconds before saying: “Ricky… Ricky… If you were going to change your name then you should have gone with something more classy. Not something from a James Bond movie.”

 

Goldsworth's eyes darkened but not with that glint of murder but one of challenging. “My name _is_ classy, you Neanderthal. Yours is just pointed to violence.” He then pointed to his drying blood, “Everything you do or say-- but mostly do --will be held against you to prove my point… Nicky.” 

 

Night pulled back his fist and was ready to swing when Legs hand caught his wrist. A series of cusses was ready to escape his mouth when the sound of the front door opening and by the sound of it the person was upset.

 

“It's one essay! It's not gonna kill me!” a girl’s voice came, clearly sounding upset by whatever she was talking about. And it sounded like a petty argument that was important to her, not to the second voice that came from down the hall though, sounding even more upset than the girl before him. 

 

“That’s the thing! I swear that you are as reckless as you are--”

 

“Fight me, Pops!”

 

As the voices got closer, they all stood their ground as they realize that there was a third party, mostly silent besides the footsteps and some snickers from the young girl and the other voice bickering. Three can certainly win a fight if they were clever. 

 

Tinsley’s eyes dart around the room before landing at the suddenly dark hallway as the fear slowly increase and he scoffed at himself for being such a coward, he served in the military, seeing fellow soldiers being blown into pieces and children bleed their hearts out but he was terrified of a tiger of a man and his brother with the same amount of blood on his hands and with a man who he share the same face with. All of this was too much for him that vomit burned his throat as he tried to swallow down the little breakfast he ate.

 

The footsteps got closer and closer, Ricky’s hand went to the switchblade, hiding in the palm of his hand under the sleeve of his blazer; while Night’s hand fell to his side where the gun was. _Oh brothers, there was never such devoted brothers_  Two exact faces, in tight places, they think and act as one. 

 

Slowly and surely, three faces appeared from the dark hall that seemed to be infinite. And that's when Tinsley dropped on the carpet floor, convinced that he was insane. 

  
  
  


There was a new pair of familiar faces that appeared from the shadows. Ricky and Night's mouth fell as they shared a look before looking at the new members to the party. Yes, another person that looks like them; a triplet maybe but maybe their mother threw the third one away when she realized that three is a crowd and two was a enough. _Maybe that's why one of them was missing._

 

This face had glasses, tired eyes and dark whispers on his chin and cheeks. He looked like a disheveled version of themselves. His eyes were half way shut due of tiredness so he didn't see them. 

 

Then there was another man that was also a carbon copy of both Tinsley (who fell to ground on his knees because… overwhelmed was an understatement) and Legs. Oh God, this is too much. 

 

But then the real shocker was the third person. 

 

Sophia's eyes grow wide at the sight of her. She looks just like her. Almost exact. Wide eyes at the sight of each other looked like one from a mirror. It was strange. They dressed like polar opposite. Sophia looking like something from the 40s while the other girl looking all punk-angst style that gave off a tough energy. 

 

“Oh dear,” Sophia gasps.

 

“Holy shit,” Scout whispers.

  
  
  


There was an awkward silence that sat in the room. It bathed all of them. Every person in the room felt weird and uncomfortable and just… none of them could explain it. The odds of them meeting people that look just like them was just odd and off. 

 

None of them knew how to react to this. Tinsley did, however, showed how unsettling all of this was. Now he needs to throw up. Oh God he _needs_ to throw up. He instead coughs into the pit of his arm and sheds some tears. 

 

It was Night that was the first one to speak. “So… Ricky and I are the only twins here, by blood. But you--” he points at Ryan “--you just _have_ to be family.” 

 

The edgy-punk girl spoke up, less shy than the doll by a lot, “Damn right. Because there can only be one Ryan.” 

 

Shane snorted, seeming unfazed by the situation. “One Ryan is enough.” 

 

“Shut up, long legs,” Night and Ricky say at the same time, shooting him an ugly look of disgust. They sounded somehow offended by the whole situation. 

 

“I think we need to sit down and talk this through,” Legs said, sounding calm yet bewildered. He sighs and rubbed his face, the gun rather close to his own face but not giving mind to it. “As it seems I'm the only mature one, let's start over. Hi! My name is Logan Charles Nowak but people call me Legs and you two--” he points at Tinsley and Shane “--we have the same fucking face.” 

 

Then it was Night to speak up, “I hate all of this. Hi… I'm Night and that guy over there is my serial killer of a brother.” 

 

Ricky smiled, “Now Nicholas, I thought you stopped calling me your brother.” 

 

In one swift movement Night pointed the gun against Ricky's forehead, his finger twitching against the trigger, not even looking like he was hesitating to pull. “You are so lucky there's two children present if not I'll blow your brains out, you son of a bitch.”

 

The serial killed made a soft noise, not even scared at the gun and angry family in front of him. “Do you _ever_ call Mama a bitch because I will tear your tongue out.”

 

They both stare at each other, Ricky having the switchblade against his brother's stomach while having that same brother press a gun against his forehead. 

 

“These two have issues,” Scout muttered under her breath so that Shane and Ryan could hear; and they both nodded in agreement as they watched Legs pull Night away slowly. 

 

Legs pulled him away by hooking him under his armpits. “Now, Night, you can't be mad at your brother for the rest your life.”

 

“Yes, I can. That's why I stopped talking to this fucking psycho!” Night snaps, waving the gun around whilst talking with his hands. 

 

The tall ex-mobster sighs. “That's why I called him…”

 

Everything made sense. 

 

_”WHAT?!”_ roared the twins. And then they spilled too much feeling that it felt like a bad Rom-com. There was too many words and they were telling that you could only catch some words and most of them were just words that could make you go to Hell. 

 

Ryan covered Scout's ear from the conversation, the same way he would covered a toddler's ear around the mentioned of sex. Honestly, not even he or Shane cuss like that. 

 

“Go to Hell, Ricky!” 

 

“Fuck you, too, Nick!” 

 

“This is your fucking fault, you goddamn cunt!” 

 

“ _My_ fault? Oh-oh! If you really wanna talk like that then I'm gonna spill the whole truth, you motherfucker,” Night was ready to swing when Legs pulled him back. “Let go of me! Let go! I'm gonna kill him for what he did!” 

 

“We both know I didn't do it,” Ricky said, quiet. 

 

And that's when Night lost it, memories of that night and what he felt gathered and exploded, like a soda can being shaken up before being popped open. And Ricky was the one that was shaking the can. Anger and sour gathered in his throat as tears gathered in his eyes, those tears that he thought were already dried up but he was wrong, those tears were just asleep. But now they were awake, ready to get revenge. “You know what you did! You know damn well what the fuck you did! You killed him! You just had to kill him, you fucking psycho, didn't you?” he yelled, anger making his tears start to drip from his eyes. “Yout fucking killed him! Why? If you hated yourself so much then you would have killed _me_! Why didn't you kill me? We have the same _fucking face!_ Why couldn't you kill me?” 

 

Everything went quiet.

 

_”Why didn't you kill me?”_ he whispers. 

 

***

 

Everybody agrees to never speak of this again. That was until Scout opened her mouth. “Yo! You!” she says as they walk down the suspiciously empty halls. She whistles to call the girl that look like her attention. “Doll-chick!”

 

Sophia turned around and raised an eyebrow, confused by her barbaric behavior. “Whistling is frankly unnecessary.” 

 

Now Scout was the one that raised an eyebrow. “What then? Want me to be like? _“YO! HOLMES!”_ I don't know you that well.” She walks up to her and notice that they're the same height, identical in every way. “And, damn, you sound so goddamn posh. You always speak like this?” 

 

Confused by what she meant Sophia just nodded. “I do, yes.”

 

Scout looked her up and down and saw her white flats and the pink dress and could only think of _doll_ at the sight of her. Funny that they have the same face but seem like different people because of how the dress. Scout looking something from a _Quentin Tarantino_ film. _Pulp Fiction_ mostly, though. “You look like the Annabelle doll but less creepy… well…” 

 

The doll cocked her head at the punk. “What's the Annabelle doll?” 

 

“You know, the one from the Annabelle movie,” Scout says, shoving her hands in the pocket of her baggy jacket why kicking the carpet under her feet.

 

Sophia shook her head. “I've never watched a movie, nor went to a cinema.” 

 

The punk made a sound that was similar to choking on spit. Her head fell to the side, inspecting with her eyes darting up and down at Sophia as she tried to spot a lie. “You gotta be shitting me. Have you ever watched a movie? Like, at all?” 

 

Again, she shook her head in honesty. Scout stared at her and whispered, “What the fuck?” She always thought that teenagers did random and bad shit, like she does. Everything from flunking a class to sneaking out to stealing a beer from the fridge. So how come this girl, who she suspects have the same age as her, has done _nothing_ in her teenage life? 

 

They then both jumped when they heard a sound from down the hall. Sophia's eyes went wide with concern but Scout stood in front of her, protecting her. _I've meet her for only an hour but if anything happens to her I will kill everyone in this room and then myself_ , she thought as she looks where the sound came from. 

 

She expected someone with muscle, like an airheaded henchman from a movie but instead, it was a boy. He looked like he was their age, with deep brown eyes, messy brown hair, and beauty marks on his face. Frankly, she thought he was cute. 

 

“Oof! Hi!” he waved with a friendly smile on his face as he slowly walked towards them, his suitcase in his hand. “I'm sorry that I scared the both of you but I'm lost. Have you seen my friend?” 

 

“How do they look like?” Sophia says, poking her head from behind Scout, sounding as naïve as a child. 

 

The guy's face brights up with surprise. “Are you two twins? Cool!” 

 

Scout rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “No. We aren't. She and I just happen to look alike.” 

 

“Alike?” the guy whistles. “Nah, sis. You two are identical. Except for how y'all dress. You look like her evil twin.” 

 

Here's the thing about Scout, she tends to fight and argue anyone or anything if they get something wrong. She's the type of person that will send you a whole essay through text if you were wrong… about spelling a word wrong. And now she was willing to argue, even with the headache that's slowly dawning on her. “You don't know us so you can't just assume.” 

 

The guy's face grows pink with embarrassment. “Right, sorry. I'm Joshua Gonzalez. And I'm looking for my friend/boss.” 

 

“You're friends with your boss?” Scout asks, raising an eyebrow and having her stance wide, looking like a punk bodyguard to Sophia. “I don't know if that's sad or funny.” 

 

Josh smiles a stiff smile. “At least I have friends.” 

 

The punk took a step forward, ready to strike but Sophia grabs her by the shoulder to stop her, it worked but didn't stopped her from glaring daggers into Josh's eyes. “How does your friend look like?” the doll says in a polite voice. 

 

The guy's face softens at the sound of her voice. “He's tall, skinny, kinda ugly-lookin’. He looks like a sloth and vulture's baby.” 

 

“His name?” the nicest of the two asks, actually willing to help.

 

“Ben McClinkton,” he says. “But he likes to be called Banjo.” 

 

Sophia blinks and lets go of Scout, who shrugged her shoulders and rolled up the sleeves of her jacket. The doll's eyebrows slowly knit together as she tried to remember his face, “I know him. He fancies Mr. Goldsworth, doesn't he?” 

 

Joshua's eyes light up. “You know him? Lit! But wait… wait… How do you know Banjo's little boyfriend?” 

 

Now it was Scout's turn to look confused. “Yo, wait… you mean that guy with the knife downstairs and tried to kill his brother? The guy that looks like Ryan?” 

 

“Goldsworth has a brother?” Josh asks. “And you know a dude that looks like him? Jesus Christ this is a mess. I need a drink.” 

 

Sophia smiles softly. “There's a water fountain down the hall,” she says as soft as a flower petal and with the kindness of a nurse. 

 

Both Josh and Scout scoff at her innocence. “He don't mean _that_ type of drink,” Scout says but still agreeing with him. “But he sure is right. It's 4 a.m therefore I should be asleep but we know damn well that that ain't gonna happen.” 

 

“Tequila or vodka?” he asks as he put his suitcase down, settling on looking for Banjo later. 

 

Scout rolls her eyes but smiles. “Rum and cola, actually. I'm too tired to get drunk on hard liquor.” 

 

It was Josh's turn to smile as he steps forward and stands at their side, taller than them by a full two inches. He inspect her face and sees makeup that was halfway gone and a tired look in her eyes that were accompanied by bags under them. He was surprised that she didn't have a nose piercing, or snake bites. She did, however, have two rings on her promise ring finger that were stalked on top of each other. “I like your rings.” 

 

Scout looks down and smiles at the sight of those rings she adores so much. “Thank you, my girlfriends gave them to me.” She inspects his face and was expecting a look of disappointment by the mentioned of being taken but he just smiled brightly, showing off impressively white teeth. She then saw his earrings that were tiny heart shaped hoop earrings. “I like your earrings.” 

 

His hand went to his ear to play with them. “Thanks, _my_ girlfriend gave them to me. She's the reason that I pierced my ears.”

 

“She sounds nice,” Scout says.

 

Josh nods. “She is. I love her. I'm gonna marry her.” 

 

Sophia smiles, but felt sad on the inside. She never has the chance to love or date. In fact, she doesn't even think she has ever had a crush on someone. Admiration was different from a crush and right now she felt weird and odd for not loving someone. “Scout,” she says. “Is that your real name?”  

 

The punk giggles and shakes her head. “Nah. It's my nickname, my real name is--” 

 

The sound of a door slamming shut scared the three teenagers. They look to see none other than Ricky stomping towards the three. He looks tired and slightly annoyed as he takes Sophia's arm, “There you are! I was wondering where you were.” 

 

“I was talking to Scout, here,” she explains. “She and I are becoming very familiar with each other, sir.” 

 

Josh takes one look at Ricky's face and gasps. “You're Goldsworth,” he gasps, some of the color draining from his face. Maybe it was the tiredness or the nervousness but it was enough for him to take a small step back.

 

Ricky looks at him, his grip on the doll's arm didn't move or waver. “And you are…?” 

 

“Right!” Josh jumps a bit and mock salutes. “I'm Joshua, McClinkton's assistant. He's been looking for you. That's why he's here.” 

 

Now the serial killer let's go of Sophia's arm. “Banjo's here? Why on earth is he here?”

 

Josh shrugged. “I dunno. But I can't find him anywhere. The last time I saw him was he was walking around the second floor.” 

 

“My room is in the second floor,” Ricky mutters as he looks at his shoes to think. Then looks up to Sophia, “Child, if he's at my room, fetch him for me. I need speak with him.” 

 

The doll nods. “Of course, right away, Mr. Goldsworth, sir.” And then she hurries to the elevator, _alone_.

  
  
  


“I can't believe you look just like him,” Scout says as she stares at Ricky with a sickly fascination. 

 

He looks down at her and almost forgets that she's identical to his doll. Almost. This version of her seemed both relax and anxious, kind yet mean, tired but full of energy. She has the same face but a different soul. Or maybe they were the same but the experiences around them shaped them into who they are. Like twins split apart at birth to see the experiences they would live as an experiment. Interesting yet rather pathetically sad. 

 

“Ah yes, your father is the other me,” he says. 

 

Then Scout's face goes pink with annoyance. “Ryan is _not_ my dad.” 

 

Ricky nods once. “Then the other Tinsley is your father then, yes?” 

 

Her face goes into a deeper shade of pink. “No. Neither is Shane. Neither of them are my parents. That's like me saying if Sophia was your daughter.” 

 

Then Ricky made noise in the back of his throat, one similar of suppressing a sound of pain when he wanted to hiss. His face, however, was stone cold. He slowly towered over the child, closing the space between them to intimidate her. “You wouldn't understand me if you tried,” he whispers in a voice close to a growl. The tiger glares her down but she didn't even blink, locking eyes with the girl with blood on her shirt and a sadness in her eyes. 

 

Strange to see a child be braver than all his victims. 

 

***

 

Night slammed the door unnecessarily hard, hearing everything in the trashy hotel room jump along side Legs. He threw his stuff onto the bed before staring at his friend, looking furious and bitter and even vulnerable. His eyebrows knitting up while his mouth twisted into a frown. 

 

“So this is why you brought me here?” he asked, trying to not yell. So many emotions buzzed inside him, he was so overwhelmed that he needed to throw up but kept his food down. 

 

He escaped the Mob, he was terrified and anxious on the plane over here but still trusted his friend blind enough to go somewhere without an explanation just to see the last person he would ever want to see? No. He left for a reason and all of that was thrown away. 

 

Legs sighs while putting down his stuff calmly. “You can't keep running away from your past, Night.” 

 

And then, he laughed. Night laughed like a maniac because Legs was _such a hypocrite!_ “You really wanna have that conversation? Fine. You never speak of your family and you wanna get in issues that don't concern you? You fix your own life before messing with mine!” 

 

By the look on Legs’ face, he hit a nerve. Good. Even if it was true, it was a touchy subject for the both of them. Night has a reason for not speaking of his brother; and so does Legs. All of them have reasons why they're so messed up. “Let me tell you something,” Legs says as he sits down on his bed, crossing the long legs he was known for. “Sit down.” 

 

Night stays standing. “I rather stand.” 

 

Legs waved his hand to ignore his friend's stubbornness. “Let me tell you something, Nick. When my ma and my pops got married, they loved each other madly. My pops let my ma roam the city because she loved to explore but when she had my brother and me he made her stop. But she started again five years after, and three years after that, she got sick… she died a year after. Pops was so…” There were some tears in his eyes but they were caught in his eyelashes before continuing. “After the shit I went through, you cannot tell me that _your_ life does not _concern me._ ”

 

Awkward silence was heavy, almost deafening, loud enough to make both of them uncomfortable. Night swallows something hot in his throat. Maybe he was being selfish but he was actually upset. He lets out a small scoff, which led to Legs to stand up from the bed and he staring at him. Legs was usually a peaceful person, never appearing annoyed or any emotion that might raise concern but right now, Legs eyes were hard with darkness. “Goddamnit, Nick! You’re just so fucking petty, aren’t you? What your brother did couldn’t be that bad! What did he do, hmm? Break you favorite car? Pop your soccer ball? _What did he do?”_

 

_”He killed our brother!”_ he roared. He sobbed. He broke down. He admitted. Never has he ever said those words in a sentence or out loud. Never has he ever cried about in front of someone  hever has he ever broke down about it. Never has he ever let himself admit it.

 

The ground underneath him was comforting enough to collapse on, it felt so _nice_. He had the urge to cover his face, shame making him self-conscious. Imagine seeing a man that beat the teeth out of a guy and made his swallow them was crying on the ground about something that happened more than ten years ago. Nick stares at the carpet he was sitting on, the ugly design of the carpet looking strange because of the tears that slipped onto them, making the design and his eyesight feeling like he was looking through a kaleidoscope. 

 

A hand was put on his shoulder that was accompanied with the sound of comfort whispered nonsense. The hand pressed softly against his collarbone, memories of being held there when he was sad by his mother made him sob harder. God he misses her. He should have been there when she died, he should have been at her funeral, he should had cried on her casket for forgiveness. He would have begged for forgiveness for the biggest sin he has committed. It doesn’t matter to Nick if the church he went to as a child forgives him, it doesn’t matter if God forgives him; all he wants is his mother’s forgiveness.

 

***

 

Ricky left when he saw that he couldn’t strike fear in Scout’s heart and he wasn’t going to waste time on her so he left her and Joshua alone before giving him an evil look that made Josh’s heart stop and all the color in his face drain away. 

 

“He ain’t that scary,” she says, mimicking Josh’s accent. “He could scare some kittens but not me.”

 

Josh tried to catch his breath, leaning against the wall and gasping in air as if he had ran for his life. “Whatchu mean?! He kills people!” 

 

Scout scoffs, actually meaning it as a sense of mocking Goldsworth. “So? Anyone can kill anyone! I can kill you, a duck can kill if it tries hard enough! I’m just sayin’ that he ain’t that special.”

 

He made a confused sound in between a gasp and choking on spit. “How can you _not_ be scared of him? You have the guts I lack.” Josh then took a step close to her, still supporting himself against the wall, looking as if he had been shot in the side. He leaned in close enough for it to look like he was going to utter a secret. “He’s the Devil; he knows all; he’s like God but even worse. _Mas sabe el diablo por viejo que por diablo.”_ He stared at her and realized that she might not have understood what he said. A habit he has to break when he started working with Banjo. He was so used to growing up with just latinos that mush english and spanish into something that would be later be called a sub-language on it’s own. “Oh right… Um, it means--”

 

“I know what it means,” Scout says, eyes slightly narrowing. 

 

Josh’s eyebrows shoot up. “You do?” Scout nods as she crosses her arms and leans against the wall, she looked like she should have a cigarette in her mouth. “I, uh, I didn’t know. I just assumed because you--”

 

“Because I’m Asian? Yeah, I figured. I get that alot.” Scout pushed herself from the wall and stared at the mirror that sat in between them, she messed with her own face and Josh was surprised to see her suddenly comfortable with him next to her, despite his slightly ignorant comment. “I’m part Mexican, you know. And I speak spanish almost fluently.” She looked away from the mirror to stare at him, “But you didn’t know that, didn’t you?”

 

He shook his head. “So, you’re mixed? With--”

 

She stopped him by raising a finger. “Here’s something all mixed people have always wanted to tell people who ask that _amazing_ question,” she draws out with sarcasm, “if we look mixed, we might as well be but if we don’t, don’t ask us. It gets on our nerves. Especially if you’re mixed with three things.”

 

Feeling like a douchebag, Josh fell quiet, somehow feeling like he’s been slapped across the face with The Handbook Of Unlearning Ignorance and Stereotypes. “Oh,” he managed to let out as a way to make it clear that he did listen. 

 

Scout looked back at her reflection and pulled the skin under her eyes, “Ugh, maybe I should go to sleep.”

 

He was going to say something about that when he saw something red on her white shirt. It was blood. “Is… Is that blood on your shirt?” he was too scared to actually ask that. Maybe because he was sure that it was blood (he's seen blood on clothing thanks to his girlfriend). His eyes bounced up and down from her shirt to her face, a bit of fear in his heart.

 

First it was Banjo's weird behavior while driving here which made Josh on edge because he has never seen his eyes so dark like that, tired and heavy yes but dark, never; then it was having Goldsworth glare at him with those eyes that… that were almost as dark as Banjo's but that's impossible! Goldsworth was a stone cold killer that would tear your heart out and doesn’t care about no human while Banjo was a wimp with a heart of gold that’s in love with that serial killer and acts like fucking sugar daddy towards hime. Oh God, what’s Josh’s life? 

 

She looks down at her shirt. “Yeah, it is.” Scout rubs a finger over the blood stain on her shirt and looks at it. It was dried. Of course it was dried, it’s been over two hours since her bloodshed of a nose bleed. It had turn brown on her shirt and she felt somewhat bad of ruining a nice shirt, at least it wasn’t new though. “I… had a nose bleed earlier.” She then kicks her bag aside, hiding her stuff from Josh. Was it the embarrassment of having an extra shirt because this happens so much that it has become so predictable, or because she was a teddy bear in her bag when she’s sixteen? Yeah, it’s both. 

 

“Does that happen a lot?” Josh asks.

 

“What is it to you?” she snaps from the exhaustion and feeling on edge. She looks at Josh’s reflection and sees that he flinched at her tone. Almost instantly feeling bad. “My bad,” she says, meaning it. 

 

“It’s okay. Damn, why is everyone so jumpy today?” Josh asks rhetorically as he slides down the walls and sits on the floor right next to his suitcase. He puts his chin on his knees, hugging his legs and hums to comfort himself.

 

Scout rubs her neck and collarbone, realizing that she accidently scratch herself during her episode. The blood had dried to scabs and she winced when she touched it. “It’s Halloween, that’s why. People legit get scared at days like these. It’s just a day!” She then stopped, listening to Josh’s humming and realizing that it sounded familiar. “Are… are you humming Cardi B?” she asked, stuttering midway at the surprise of it. Surprise? More like unexpected. Frankly he looked like Bruno Mars kinda guy. 

 

Josh stopped his humming. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I… I, um, am. It’s because _este_ Goldsworth reminds me of her.” 

 

She blinks. “ _How?_ He’s a serial killer while Cardiovascular Biankatus is a rapper.”

 

The way she said it made it sound like it was the most outrageous thing in the world. Okay, it kinda is. Josh laughed a little bit, agreeing that it was strange. “Yeah, I guess it is weird. But I don’t know, I just do. You know… _I like dollars, I like diamonds, I like stunning, I like shining._ He smells like new money.” 

 

“And dresses up as if he was royalty. _Tacky_ royalty none the least,” she says, proud of her dissing. _“Naco!”_

 

Josh gasped as if he had been shot. “You really got no fear don’t you?” Even though he has never uttered something foul about the psychopath he was shaking madly, terrified that he might come down the hall like Jack Torrance from _The Shining_ with an axe to chop their heads off, or maybe with a gun or a knife. His stomach burned and twisted into so many knots that it hurts. How she can be so brave, or so ignorant, he will never understand. And he envies it. Joshua is big scaredy cat, jumping when watching a horror movie and not able to finish it without having a nightmare later on. But that was when he was a child, he cried when he watched _The Curse Of Chucky._ But now he was mature, grown, he has a lovely girlfriend and a steady job and a good boss. He thought that he had outgrown that cowargeness but when he started this job, he was dancing right next to murderers, psychopaths, human traffickers, terrible souls that somehow escaped Hell he still feels fear. That’s why he stood right next to Banjo, a man who had the treats that those souls want; he was the one that held the dog treats surrounded by vicious animals. 

 

Scout gave him a smug smile, “Nope! I sleep next to Ryan, the guy ran out a house once because he thought the Devil himself touched his head.” It was slightly mean to say that, considering she had an episode not too long ago. And she was the one that had to chase him and coax him into going back again. 

 

“If they ain’t your parents then what are they to you?” he asked, hopefully not poking a nerve. 

 

She exhales through her nose, rubbing the bridge of it. She should be mad at him, she should tell him to mind his business but deep inside, she wants to know too. 

 

***

 

The door was locked, Tinsley already checked and then kicked the door because _who the hell has the lock on the outside?_ He wanted to cry but a bit of hope played in his heart when he heard a car pulling out of the parking lot, he ran to the window and looked down and fell his heart drop when it was just an everyday car. 

 

He rubbed his face, tears welding in his eyes. He was so tired, he is sick and tired and he wants to go home so he can water his cactus Philip and lay in his bed and make coffee in his kitchen and eat popcorn as he watches his favorite movies over and over again. He just wants to go home. 

 

But he also wants to stay. He wants to live with the constant danger of breathing around of Ricky, he wants to feel that adrenaline when Ricky smiles at him, he wants to feel a thrill shooting inside of him like a volcano when Ricky lays a hand on him. _He wants Ricky._

 

At first he thought that he wanted to protect Miss Sophia, he does care for her, a lot. She protects him from a lot of harm, brings him actually edible food, sits next to him so he can cry in the company of a human and not mice. But that slowly turned into not wanting to escape but more of wanting to be hunted down, happily standing by his side. He and Sophia standing right next to the tiger with pride, to be surrounded in comfortable fear and the feeling of being watched and being on a short leash. He wants to be the one that Ricky can confined in. 

 

Tinsley jumped when there was a knock on the door. It couldn’t be Ricky because he would just burst in without any cares, it wasn’t Sophia either as she would knock three times before entering. Slowly the door opened and the first face he saw made his heart drop. “Goldsworth…”

The man’s face showed confusion before understanding. “Oh, no. I’m Ryan,” he said. Then another face poked in, it was Tinsley’s Other, who smiled wide and hard, somewhat goofy. “And this is bigfoot of a friend.”

 

“Hi!” he says, smiling wide and almost painfully bright even if there were some tiredness in his eyes. Tinsley wonders if he looked like that before all of this happened, he wonders if he looked like that when he smiled at this girl he liked at the department, he wonders if his eyes got as scrunched up as the man in front of him. “Hey, Ryan he looks like you when you’ve seen a ghost!”

 

“Shut up, Shane!” snapped the Other Ricky-- Ryan. He was almost identical, except for the darkness in his eyes, the sharpness in his teeth, the smell of danger and sin surrounded was replaced by the smell of old cloth and tea. And he hasn’t shaved, something that Goldsworth wouldn’t be caught dead doing. This version of him looked like the psychopath but softer, more domestic. Something that Tinsley didn’t crave. 

 

Tinsley forced a smile, fixing his slightly wrinkled shirt. “What… What can I do for you?” His tone similar to him talking to Goldsworth.

 

“We were just curious ‘bout something,” Shane says, leaning against the door frame, looking slightly tipsy. 

 

“Yes?” hisses Tinsley calmly.

 

His counterpart's head falls to one side, inspecting with familiar eyes. “Who are you?” 

 

And that's when Tinsley broke down, crying and mourning the death he feels close. Death was at the window and in the shadows on the floors, Death roams the halls ready to take one or more souls away in the most painful way. The tiger will rip his throat out with those teeth. He whimpered when he saw blood on those white teeth of his. 

 

“I… I don't know,” he whispered, words muddy with paranoia and fear. “I used to be someone. Someone! Someone great but now… all I have left is a stranger in the mirror. But I like it! I enjoy being a washed down version of myself, being bleached into a simple being; but I don't because I want my life back! _I want it back!_ ”

 

Tinsley was taking shallow breaths in, trying to get all of the air that he had used for his mental breakdown. He fell on the ground, despair tearing him in two. Not knowing who he is anymore. 

 

All that was left was a shell of a bright man with love for the world that now was just a stranger to the world, standing alone. 

 

***

 

Fire burns in Banjo's throat as he walked down the halls, legs stretching with his body relaxed. His body language was similar to one of a cat, lean and long. If you saw him you would think he was another guest, not someone being driven with anger and obsession. Banjo had been quiet, unlike the voice in his head. He didn’t understand it, like talking to someone in a foreign language but still able to pick up some familiar words and context clues. 

 

The voice shapeshifts into many tones, mimicking his favorite celebrities voices, people he used to know like childhood friends and teachers that he thought he had forgotten but his subconscious brought them back, the Voice in his head digging deep in his memories to bring back things. But there worst of them all was the Voice of his mother, dancing in his ear like a sweet melody that haunts his dreams and pulls his heart strings-- that voice was the puppet master of this all.

 

And Banjo was aware of it too, feeling strings being wrapped around every joint in his body and controlling him to move forward against one goal, one single thought infested his brain like a virus.

 

The Voice seemed to know all, steering his body into a certain direction. That was when he was standing in front of Goldsworth's door. It was like any other door in the hotel, any door door in this hallways. A simple door with a plain white color and dulled out once-gold door knob. His first instinct to just open it but the Voice hissed in his ear: _Knock, they know you_. So he did, he knocked with a knot on his stomach, everything felt sensible in him, his bones feeling like styrofoam, and his knuckles felt soft. They hurt but still knocked, not too hard but not too soft.

 

Banjo's heart jumped just a bit at the sound of the door opening to reveal the person he was just looking for. His face flashed off a smile that didn't suit the coming situation. 

 

“Banjo! Mr. Goldsworth was just looking for you,” Sophia says with a polite smile that made Banjo's inside twist. 

 

“I really hope he wasn't waiting for me that long,” the Voice pushed the words out of his mouth and it fell flat at their feet. 

 

Sophia smiled, her eyes shining like her shiny earrings. “Oh, not at all.” She was going to step out of the room but he stopped her by grabbing the door and it slamming hard into the palm of his hand with a soft _thunk_.

 

He towered over her by more than a foot and he stared her down and by the look on her face, she was slightly intimidate. Her eyes dart around, looking down the hall for a second before smiling, slightly weary, and looking up at him. “I actually need to talk to you,” Banjo felt those words on his tongue but they didn't quite reach his ears. “Alone. Inside.” 

 

She took a step back into the room to let him in. She turned her back to him as she walked in, hearing towards the bed where Goldsworth's coat was. “What can I do for you?” she asked, offering him a polite smile before wiping it down and not looking up at it.

 

Banjo closed the door behind him. “You know Ricky very well, Sophia, don't you?” he asks, closing the door as quietly as he could and hearing a soft _click_. 

 

Sophia looks up for a second before continuing to take care of the coat. “Of course I do. I've known Mr. Goldsworth since I was a young child.” She pulls back from the coat and stares at it with pride caressing her heart as she smiled. 

 

Banjo stepped away from the door, his hands going to the pocket of his coat, his fingertips brushing against the cold item in his pocket. 

 

She turns to look at him. “Do you want me to make you a drink? Mr. Goldsworth isn't going take long to notice my absence; he would _kill_ me if I didn't offer you something.” 

 

He shook his head.

 

“Oh. Maybe I should take your coat--” she walked towards him with her hands ready to take it off his frame. When her hand brushed against the sleeve of his coat his snapped to grab her wrist. Her eyes widen in surprise, looking slightly offended by the action.

 

He suddenly let go of her wrist. “Sorry,” he apologized with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He saw how she was rubbing her wrist, he might have hurt her a bit but not enough for a bruise to form. “I… I've been jumpy all day and…”

 

Sophia dropped her head a bit, looking more like a soft jerk than a nod. “I… understand.” She looked down at her dainty wrist before looked back up to smile. A strained one that made her eyes scrunch up. “What can I do for you?” she repeats. 

 

His eyes dropped to something that caught his eyes, something shiny around her neck and over her chest. His heart dropped and some sweat gathered under the collar of his shirt. Anger gathered in his throat, some of the color drained of his face. “Who gave you that?” Banjo asked as quietly as he could do without bursting out. 

 

His hand wrapped his fingers around the golden rosary that was on her neck. He looked at it and knew that he was it was the one he gave to Ricky. The one that was meant for _him_. Not her. _Never her._

 

“Who gave it to you?” he says, voice dropping five octaves from his normal tone. All of the control that he thought he had was slowly draining. 

 

Sophia had taken a step back but his grip on the jewelry didn't loosen and he took a step in return to keep her from moving away. The rosary around her neck was now a collar, appropriate for her. The golden rosary was her leash like the pet she is. 

 

_”Who… gave you this?”_ he whispered, so close to snapping. 

 

Sophia's eyes were wide with fear. Dinner plate eyes and shallow breaths in. Seeing the pretty little doll so terrified of him was so… intoxicating. He wants to live that moment over and over again. He wants to take this moment and press it into a stone so he can carry it around with him. 

 

_ He loves it. _

 

She swallowed before stammering out: “He gave it… Mr. Goldsworth guh-gave it t-to me.” 

 

That was where the dam broke, his fist tight around the rosary as he slowly cornered her into the wall. He loomed over her like a dark shadow and her eyes, still shining like they always but this time, all of the light was ready to fade away. 

 

She gasped when something sharp gathered in her stomach. Everything froze. Everything stopped. The world stopped spinning for that single moment as she stared at him with wide eyes, all of the color draining from her face as she fell back against the wall, holding her stomach.

 

Warmth fell into her hands as she slid down the wall. 

 

Banjo did it. He killed her. _He killed her._ Some artificial joy gathered in him before it being drained away, gone like pouring water down the drain. That feeling of euphoria was replaced with fear when the door opened. 

 

“Sophia! I--” 

 

Ricky stopped mid-sentence. Staring. Watching. Processing. He stopped breathing. The person he cares about more than anything in his world was dying on the floor, and the person he trusts has the weapon in his hand. 

 

He pushed Banjo out of the way and dropped to his knees in front of her, his heart beating slow in his ears. All of the world was fading and shattering underneath him. She was dying as she gasps in air and the moment she takes her last breath the world would be a dark place. The curtains will fall and he will only see the sheer darkness. He will see the darkness when all the light in her eyes fade away.

 

“Don't you worry… sir,” Sophia's voice cracks as she spoke, it might be hurting her to speak. “I don't fear death… I don't fear pain…” Her hand went onto his side of his face, something he should have done. He feels the once warm blood cool at his touch. 

 

“You're--” he tried to speak but the words died in his throat. Ricky pulled her into his lap, the back of her knees he pulled up to cradle. So many memories of holding her for the first time when she was so small, the way he cried when he knew she came into his life, his little doll was made the same way one of Adam's ribs to create Eve but he loves her more than the First Man could ever love the First Woman because this love comes deeper than loving a husband or wife. 

 

The sound of soft rain fell against the window, she smiled weakly. “I don't fear death… I don't fear pain… I don't fear a little bit of rain.” 

 

Ricky smiled as he pushed the hair that has fallen on her face and over her eyes away. “I don't fear a little bit of rain…” he repeats to comfort her. That small story that he told her growing up. _Don't you ever fear crying. Don't you ever fear a little bit of rain. A little bit of rain can hardly hurt you._

 

“A little bit of rain…” she whimpered when her gasped in air too fast, she still smiled at him, “...can hardly hurt me now.”

 

He took her head and cradled it, putting it his chin on top of it. “You’re okay. You’ll be okay… Shh…” Some tears gathered in his eyes, closing his eyes and they caught in his eyelashes. “Shhh… It’s okay. You’ll be okay, my dear.” Ricky heard her sob against his shirt, “A little bit rain can… hardly… hurt you…”

 

Ricky felt her gasp her last gasp of air; he felt her breathe her last breath in, her last squeeze of his hand, her last word that she uttered in his shirt: _”Dad…”_

 

The curtain was closing. 

  
  
  


As the curtains closed, he stared at her eyes, all of the light left her eyes. It dripped down the drain the same way that sense of euphoria left Banjo and it was replaced with a sense of fear. His heart stopped when Ricky let her go, her body was lolling away from his chest, empty and hollow. 

 

Banjo saw how Ricky stared at her one last time before closing her eyes and slowly putting her down on the carpet, the same way a child would put their doll down to make believe it was asleep. He put her hands in her side and actions like that. Then he stands up and looked directly at Banjo.

 

He gulps. He's alone in a room with a serial killer. He's alone with a serial killer who he killed the only good thing in his life. So this is how Banjo dies?

 

As the serial killer rose to his feet and slowly walked up towards him so many things went through his head, so many possibilities: one being Banjo beat to a bloody pulp, the other having Goldsworth push him out the window, and one that was mostly hope was one where Goldsworth would let him live and hold his hand as they walk away from the dead doll and having those eyes that he loves so much stare at him. 

 

But now those eyes were covered in a darkness and he was staring at him with a blood curdling look. Never has Goldsworth look like that, there always that darkness but it was the short darkness of the night that is accompanied by the shine of the stars and of the city lights; but this was so different. It wasn't the darkness of the night with those lights-- it was the darkness of a black hole that sucked the light and life around him. 

 

Goldsworth's hands wrap around the collar of Banjo's shirt, pulling him down so they can meet eye to eye. “You…” he whispered. “You took her away. You killed her!” Goldsworth proceeded to punch him in the stomach, and that's when Banjo fell to his knees. 

 

All of the shame and guilt he felt was pushing him down, having the pressure squeeze all of the hope he had out of him. The iron grip on the front of his shirt was enough to keep Banjo from falling forward. Everything in him was telling him to look up but something small in him made him. 

 

Those eyes he adored so much were showing him what he always wanted: intimacy and vulnerability. Banjo was staring into Goldsworth's soul. His soul was the darkest of inks, the darkest of nights, the darkest of black holes. He was staring into the soul of a broken serial killer. 

 

Banjo could tashe that soul, he wanted to dip his hand in it and bathe in it. He could almost feel it, it feels like paint. Goldsworth seemed to have aged in that single moment, hair becoming a mess, red rimmed his now tired eyes with bags underneath them and seemed to have grown a few whiskers in just a matter of minutes. 

 

“I should make you swallow your teeth,” he hissed. “Maybe you should choke on them. Maybe I should bash your head in. Because you're just so _despicable!_ And do you know why?”

 

Banjo shook his head, tears gathering in his eyes. 

 

“Answer me!” Goldsworth spat. 

 

“I don't know!” Benjamin whimpered. “I don't know why I'm despicable!” Flashbacks of emotional training at war made him spat out his answers in full sentences. 

 

Slowly, Goldsworth leaned in close, faces only inches away from each other, eyes locking. An intimate moment between the Tiger and the shadow. The Tiger's fingers tense even more as he opened his eyes, his voice was a spine chilling melody. Even worse than the bombing of buildings in Iraq, even worse than the sounds of bullets ringing in his ears, even worse than the last gasping breaths of his companions when blood choke them to death.

 

“Because I'm a serial killer and assassin, but _I don't kill children,_ ” he hissed. _“You are worse than me.”_

 

Ben gasped in air, big tears streaming down his face. He knows what's going to happen, he knows it too well, having nightmares where he watches him kill a man where all he can do is watch. Those nightmares were enough to make him stay awake all night, but now this was the moment where he knew that he won't make it out alive. Benjamin gasped in even more air when a blade touched his neck, it was slimy with other blood. 

 

A sob escaped his mouth, cold sweat grew in his face but heat gathered in his chest and legs. The knife he had used to kill an innocent soul, an innocent girl that caused no harm but just tried to be polite and nice and always has smiled at him. Now that girl was dead, blood stopped polling around her but the sight of something that was so beautiful was now dead was so _haunting_. Banjo stripped her of her life, her youth. Now she is destined to haunt the halls of this ugly place, beauty was wasted away. 

 

Banjo drops his chin against the flat side of the knife. He was ready to die, he needs to die, he _wants_ to die. He couldn’t live his life with the knowledge that he killed someone. He killed a child. “P… Please,” he sobbed. 

 

The darkness in Goldsworth’s eyes seemed to fade just a bit, seeing the guilt in Banjo’s frame softened him just a bit. Some ache appeared in his chest. He knows what she would have said to him if she was alive. He knows her so well. What type of father doesn’t know their own child? He knows what she would? He can feel the presence of her right at his side, where she has always been and will always be. 

 

“Any last words?” he asks, tears burning the back of his eyes but slowly began to come out. His hand shook slightly as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

 

Banjo opened his mouth. “Forgive me in the afterlife. I'm sorry. _I love you_.”

 

Goldsworth's hand naturally moved, the pressure enough for blood to be shed came naturally over years of doing so, the quick slick of hand was gone usually to pull away so blood wouldn't spill all over him. 

 

Now Goldsworth was covered in blood.of the two people he cared about in the world. All but one. 

 

Banjo fell to his side, hands going to the fountain of blood that his throat was spilling. All of the life was draining from him, it was spilling out of him. But he felt no fear; pain yes, but fear no. He doesn't fear death because he knows where he's going: Hell. And like Sophia, the life drained from his eyes, the sparkle that was fading stared up at Goldsworth. 

 

A small smile flashed on his face. He wanted Ricky's eyes to stare at him for the end of his days-- this was the end of him.

  
  
  
  


Goldsworth collapsed onto the ground, on his knees with the knife still in his hand but just barely holding it, slack in his hand while his fist held him up.

 

He was alone. Completely alone. 

 

He has no one now. No one to live for. No one to work for. The truth was that he worked so hard for her. For her. And now he's alone with no motivation, no family, no one. _He's alone._

 

“What the fuck happened in here?” a gasp was heard. 

 

Goldsworth looked up to see his other self and another man that looked like Banjo and the girl that looks like his Sophia. He watched as his other self's face paled in horror while the other Banjo grabbed the girl by the arm and pulled her away to protect her from the sight of all of this. 

 

The girl's face was identical to his Sophia, so identical that his brain automatically labeled her as such. He could see her wearing her favorite dress, curling her hair like she likes it, sitting at his side how she always have. 

 

He found himself standing up and grabbing the girl's arm and trying to pull her into the room. Scout screamed and tried to pull away. This led with a pinch to the face from his other self and the door slamming at his face. 

 

They ran like Hell, Scout's arm feeling cold and numb. Did he cut her? Was she bleeding? She felt something cold and slimy on her arm but she didn't know if it because she was bleeding or because of the blood he already had in his hands.

 

Shane pulled her into the elevator and was slamming the button to go down, Ryan was barely able to make it into the elevator, sliding on right when the doors were going to shut. 

 

She was shaking, swallowing air as she threw herself against the wall of the elevator, her back feeling a sting and ache as she slides down the wall and into the floor. Tears weld into her eyes as she hugs herself. 

 

“It's okay…” Ryan sits next to her, putting his hand hand on her shoulder and feeling her tense up at the touch. “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?” he asked, looking at the bloody hand print that that psycho left. 

 

Scout swallowed her spit alongside air. “I knew that look…” she whispers, tears spilling and rolling down her cheeks. “I knew that look…! He stares right at me! He stared at me like _she stared at me!_ ” She sobbed into her hands. Flashbacks danced around her closed eyes. The feeling of that woman's eyes haunt her soul, burning cold that made her skin crawl. Her hands that look so soft danced delicately on her shoulder and neck but those nails caused pain when she dug them into Scout's shoulder and leaving blood in their wake. 

 

“It's okay,” Ryan hushed her, knowing what she means and what she speaks of. “She's not going to get you. Breathe.” 

 

She took in a large gulp of air before steady breathing fell into place. Her chest stopped moving at a rapid pace but she was still shaking, shuttering as her teeth clattered. “One… thirty-two, two, thirty-one, three, thirty, four, twenty nine, five, twenty eight…” 

 

“Just listen to me, okay?” 

 

She nods, mouthing the numbers.

 

“What's your name?” Ryan asks. She answers all she has to answer. She stuttered at some of them but she was still answering. It was a relief that she wasn't spiralling. 

 

Scout was able to calm herself down but had her heart still beating in her ears, her eyes feeling hard with a fear, her shoulders were still trembling. She puts her forehead on her knees, scared to close her eyes in fear that she might see _her_ again. The memory of that woman is burned into his brain. The scars in her mind are worse than the ones on her skin.

 

Right now, she is scared of Goldsworth.

 

***

 

“What was his name?” Legs asked, taking in a lung full of smoke from the cigarette.

 

They were both sitting on the shitty carpet with their backs on their beds. After Night's emotional breakdown he gathered himself and had a bit of dignity but who needs dignity when your brother was killed by your other brother. 

 

Night jerked his head to one side, using energy he barely had to look at his only friend. “Jake. His name was Jake.”

 

Legs exhaled the smoke through his teeth. “How old was he when he--” He didn't finish the sentence, he just snapped his mouth shut so hard that his teeth snapped together. 

 

“Me and Ricky were sixteen while Jake was twelve,” Nick says, rubbing his eyes before tears would even dare to spill. He chuckled at all the memories that he had of his family. “Jake and I played outside all the time, any sport you could name we would play. But he _loved_ basketball. We would play it so much that the ball would deflate all the time. He sucked at it but… but I still played with him. Because that's what brothers are supposed to do.” 

 

Legs smiled softly. “Yeah. Supposed to do. My brother was a piece of shit. Punching the shit out of me just because he wanted.” 

 

“What's his name?” Night rubbed the side of his nose, feeling the scar slightly hard because of age. 

 

“Landon,” he said. “He was named after my Pop's own Pop's. Suited him too, both of them were garbage people.” 

 

Night played with the top of his shirt. “Why is he in jail?” 

 

The tall ex-mob member sighed out smoke while crossing his legs. “Hit and run. He killed a little girl and because he ran off, his sentence got longer.” He looked down at the cigarette, and he realizes that he needs something stronger. Something that will knock the shit out of him. Drugs? Maybe; but never heroin. He's never touching that shit ever again. “I don't talk to him anymore.” 

 

“Not even a phone call?” Night asked, emotional exhaustion sinking in his body. There's something strange about this hotel where it seems to open people up and investigate their weakest points, touching parts of their souls and with one single touch it would cause so much pain. It's like a dentist touching a cavity and messing with it before pulling it out. But the Dentist seems to be enjoy your pain and they tell you that they will take it out over and over again until you are so sick and tired of the pain. 

 

Legs played with the cigarette in his hand. “No. I sent him one letter though. It was just a letter to tell him that Pop’s died.” His mouth felt dry, and it wasn't because of the smoke. “That's the last thing I told him. He didn't send a letter back.” 

 

A comfortable silence blankets the two of them. Their whole bodies feeling a slow but soothing numb buzz that's similar to one when you sit in the warmth of your room after playing all day in the cold rain. Night loved that feeling, reminded of him playing outside with Jake with a ball until they were dripping with mud. Their mother would yell at them to get into the shower. 

 

He smiled when he remembered all the times he used to play with him. Shoving and pushing, tackling each other into the ground at the park at their apartment complex. They would go everyday after school, never the same sport or they would make up sports on the fly. Nick would always be the one to go. 

 

That was until that one day. Nick was sick, came down with a sore throat and a fever. Jake begged him to come outside while their mother was off to work but he felt too terrible. That was until Jake pulled on Ricky's shirt sleeve to go outside. Ricky didn't like playing outside, preferring him to stay in home with a book or doing homework; he wasn't fond of the idea of dirt. But he did anyways. 

 

All that Night knows of was that Jake's skull snapped open because of Ricky. 

 

Nick stretched out his hand towards Logan. He didn't say a word. He just felt his friend put the cigarette in his hand and he taking that cigarette into his mouth, inhaling. 

 

***

 

It was a pathetic scene in the room. The one composed and feared Tiger was on the floor of his room, blood on his once white shirt was turning brown with time and his hands stopped shivering and was now numb with a buzzing feeling. 

 

The Tiger sat alone, tired-- emotionally drained. His whole body ached but all he could feel his weight being on the floor thanks to gravity. The Tiger had no bones, no spine, he was just a soft pile of skin and emotions that was on floor. Is this what all his victims felt like?

 

Hands pulled him down, no energy left to fight. Ricky thought at that moment that those hands were going to pull him down through the floor to drag him to Hell. He knows Damn well that that's where he belongs. Ricky didn't fight. He let himself being pulled and pushed around like a doll. A _doll..._

 

Then those threatening hands stopped, fading away like a hot breath in the cool air. Only one pair of hands stayed, they were soft and familiar. Those hands moved from his shoulders and to his face. That familiar touch made tears gather in his eyes, the reminiscent touch made him drown in memories. Small hands that he held when crossing the street, frail fingers he played with when she was young, sensitive skin that would make his mouth form a smile no matter what. 

 

Those hands vanished when the sound of a gasp came from the doorway. Ricky's eyes fell open to see the little (tall) detective have a face of horror on his face. His eyes trailing the room, taking in the fact that it looked like a blood bath. 

 

Many emotions flashed through his face like a flipbook. Disgust and betrayal struck Ricky as odd but had no voice in his throat, just a hot rock that he couldn't swallow or throw up. 

 

Ricky expected the detective to just run, scream for help and call the police. What would you expect from a man who worked so many years in the law system? But all that Tinsley did was walk into the room and drop on his knees in front of him and hugged him. The moment that soft and warm embrace touched him, Ricky sobbed into the detective’s shirt, staining it with blood that hasn't dried completely. 

 

Sadness, anger, frustration, betrayal, and just _heartbreak_ caused years of tears to not only come out but to be part of his mourning. 

 

“It's alright Mr. Goldsworth,” the foolish detective hums in a comfort tone. He cares about him, he now admits to no one but himself that as he held the broken man. Not the Tiger; the _man_. Goldsworth, at this moment, was a man. A man with emotions, with flaws, with a past. He wasn't a statute in an art museum where he just was there, he exists as a person-- as a human. 

 

Having a broken man, that once had more power in his small finger than Tinsley has everywhere in his body, in his arms, fragile and vulnerable felt… powerful. 

 

Tinsley's eyes drops to the knife that was still in Goldsworth's hand but had no force was on it. The fact that it was there was so tempting, almost begging him to pick up and use it. The detective's hand twitches at the idea of getting revenge right here and right now. 

 

“Mr. Goldsworth, we have to leave,” his voice felt distant like talking through a wall, muddled. “We have to leave. The police might be on their way.” 

 

He felt something cold and small. Ricky looked down at his hand to see that small familiar gold ring. The Man looked up at the detective and in that moment, he understood him.

 

A single nod was what Ricky could manage to do. He, however, stayed there for a second. A minute. Enjoying the warmth of another human. He closed his eyes and he was somehow able to see everything and nothing. Ricky was able to see his brother in another room committing something that was a sin in his eyes, he was able to see his other self with the other Tinsley leaving with the girl whose face mimicked his own girl's face, he could see how the police officers would look when they stepped into the room. 

 

This all started with murder, even if it wasn't something that Goldsworth did, it was still a murder. It started with a murder, and it ended with one. 


End file.
